The Fallen
by Mr G and Me
Summary: As a guardian angel cast out of Heaven for the unforgivable sin of falling in love with a human, Dashiel must be repeatedly reborn as neither human nor angel, but both, until he finds the girl who was the cause of his banishment. *DARK THEMES* COMPLETE
1. Prologue

**A/N: So this is kind of different from my past fics. Okay, a lot different, but I've wanted to write an angel fic for so long. I have an affinity with angels. I always have. An angel fetish, you might say. What can I say, I swoon for an avenging angel. My mother claims I used to talk to Gabriel when I was 2. I have no memory of this, but hell, I wish I did! This fic is kinda/sorta biblically correct, and then pure fiction. I have taken fallen angel names from the Book of Enoch, and some I made up. Dashiel, for instance, is made up. There is mention of Yeshua Ha Maschiac (aka Jesus), but just that. You don't have to be religious to get it, and it won't be preachy, but it will be mostly biblical canon. Dashiel will sometimes speak in Hebrew. But mostly just to swear when he's frustrated ;)**

 **This fic is rated M for a reason. It's going to get VERY DARK. There'll be no rape, or anything like that, but some mention of the demons modus operadi and other such evil shenanigans. There will, however, be murder. A lot of it. Mostly angel on angel. They will battle and shit will get bloody and gruesome. Edward will also get fairly sadistic towards some. It's written from Edward's/Dashiel's POV. No POVs from Bella.**  
 **I am 15 chapters in, and I'm going to update once a week. The chapters will be around 2-3k long. I'll try my hardest not to fall behind. I'm deliberately keeping chapters shorter for that reason, and I'm not beta-ing at the moment, so I'm pretty freed up. Chapter one will be uploaded with the prologue. It's backstory in the beginning.**  
 **So, I guess that's it. It's not going to be everyone's cup of tea, but hope you give it a go.**  
 **And thank you to my spankee doodle loveling, Sammy Hale, who takes the art of fangirling to a cringey new level, but I love her immensely.**

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 **The Fallen**

 **Prologue**

I hate to be born. Never let it be said that the infant does not feel the pain of childbirth. They do. I would choose any method of torture over it, and the prospect of having to endure it for hundreds of years to come makes the idea of being cast into Hell a very desirable alternative. I envy that humans forget it almost immediately. I remember; I've remembered all ninety-one of mine. Ninety-one lives and over four thousand years of human existence, and still I'm no closer to returning home.

At the end of the twentieth century I am born for the ninety-second time. My parents, a professional, happily married couple in their late thirties, are from Connecticut in the United States. It's the third time I've been born in North America, and for that I'm somewhat grateful. While the US is not devoid of corruption, I no longer have the tolerance to be born in a country wracked by pestilence or war. I don't need to be reminded of how pitiless and barbaric humans are capable of being.

I'm an only child, and a long awaited one at that. My mother cries as she holds me, my father gazes down at me with pride, while hospital staff comment on how _alert_ I am. _Edward_ , they name me. A strong family name. Edward Anthony Cullen. It's how I'll be known for the next two decades, but it will mean nothing to me. And while these names I'm given are only temporary, they're a constant reminder of what I've been condemned to. I discard them as soon as I'm forced to run, along with all remnants of my human life; gladly, but it changes nothing. I am still an angel stripped of my position within the Celestial Order and cast out of Heaven; my real name shunned.

Dashiel I was once called; a name given to me by the Father of Creation Himself. Dashiel, pronounced _Dash-ee-elle, and_ meaning Heart of God. The same _God_ who has long since forsaken me; who has abandoned me to over four millennia of existing alongside humans. The same humans He claims to love above all else and yet allows them to suffer constantly throughout the ages; something I've been forced to bear witness to more times than I care to recall.

The human race never really had much hope. Flawed from their inception and bound and dominated by their flesh and blood bodies. More often than not they're primitive and irredeemable. Their faults far outweigh their attributes and they're capable of more horrors than all the demons in Hell. At least, that's my opinion after scores of centuries of living among them, but I didn't always think this way. Once I believed far differently, and all because of one.

 _Her._

My human father in this life, Carlisle Cullen, is a Cardiac Surgeon; a man of high esteem in his profession. He's intelligent, which will work to my advantage; they'll expect me to be as equally smart. So, when I start speaking in sentences before I'm a year old it shouldn't come as too much of a shock to them. My mother, Esme, is a freelance writer. Writing is her passion second only to the love she has for my father. They're two humans I probably wouldn't have been so averse to being born to under any other circumstance, but I'm not born to be a part of their family, or anyone's. I was never intended to have a place within humanity.

I remain detached from my parents as a rule. It makes the inevitability of leaving them easier. I'm unable to relate to them, or any human, and I don't by the very nature of my existence require the nurturing normal human children do. Still, during my first several lives I felt a strong sense of loyalty and protection towards them; traits inherent to every member of the Angelic Host, and something I had to fight to resist as a matter of my own survival. My human family can be incredibly dangerous for me as I am to them. They're a burden I'm forced to bear until I go through the earthbound angel's bar mitzvah; when my wings come in.

When human males go through puberty their voices break. I, on the other hand, sprout a pair of wings that span over nine feet when fully extended. My wings, pale grey as opposed to the stark white of my celestial brothers and sisters, are my biggest detriment, because the moment they shoot from my back they signal a beacon to every member of the Sons of God who walk the earth. That includes those who are fallen.

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 **A/N: Yay? Nay?**


	2. Chapter 1

**A/N: Still the original story, I just left out a piece of the plot. I tried to add it, fooked up the order of the chapters and then decided, fuck it I'll unwordy it (Kim threatened me with death if I did this *hides*) and repost the chapters. I'm also in a serious funk with Hoodwinked. Everything is there it just won't flow. *Sighs*. Anyway, this is a tease, I know. I suck. Badly.**

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 **The Fallen**

 **Chapter 1**

I was created in the latter spheres of the Order of Angels. The second to last of His creation; a Watcher sent to be a Guardian. My stature within the Angelic Host, although further down in the hierarchy, was nevertheless an important one. We were commissioned to be the earthly shepherds to our father's final creation, and although something revered among the populations of believers, it was a curse from the very beginning. As the last of His sons, and created with the design to hold less authority and power among our brethren, we were inevitably full of imperfections. Imperfections and deficiencies that soon became our downfall.

When we were sent to Earth to guard and protect our father's humans, a lot of us quickly succumbed to the temptations of the flesh we suddenly found ourselves incarnating; only to find ourselves at the mercy of His wrath. The ultimate sin for us was to defile His rudimentary creation, and our judgement was swift. We were immediately cast out of Heaven.

I was no exception. I didn't fornicate with the human I was sent to guard, I fell in love with her.

Love: the epitome of my father's affection for his human sons and daughters in its simplest, purest form, but enough to make me an outcast. This is despite, as an angel, having no real concept of what love even meant as pertaining to humans. It should have been alien to me, but it wasn't.

Her name was Isobel, and she was the first human I was assigned to guard in the half-millennia that preceded the flood. My task: to whisper in her ear but never, _ever_ to intervene in the course of her life. But Isobel was different from the onset. From the moment she was born, I was drawn to her, and as she matured it only increased with an intensity and magnetism I could scarcely understand. She was the first, and only, human I had ever been sent to watch over. I was able to rationalize the connection I felt with her as a component of our guardian/human relationship. Until I realized she could see me. Humans, aside from the very young, are not supposed to be able to see us in our celestial form, and we are forbidden to reveal our wings when we're in the flesh. But not only did Isobel know immediately what I was, she also knew my name.

From a very young age I realized her mind was blank to me—for reasons I didn't initially recognize—and as she grew to be a woman it became apparent that she wasn't growing out of her gift of sight. I thought perhaps she had retained the mind of a child, but she was easily the most intelligent human in her village. She became the village healer, and appeared to have an innate understanding of the human body. I watched, becoming increasingly enamored by her, as she set broken bones, sutured wounds, and created elaborate herbal concoctions to cure her fellow villagers of their various ailments. Humans came from miles around to see her, and she was often dragged off to the Canaanite battles to patch up her wounded tribesmen.

She was never without me beside her, and it wasn't long before I became firmly bewitched. I became her servant, willing at every turn to do her bidding. I supplied her and her family with all their essential needs; livestock, fresh water, spices, cloth and materials, as well as various gemstones and precious metals. I personally presented her with diamonds, pearls, gold and silver. Things humans were just beginning to discover the value of; things she guarded close to her heart when she could have sold them and made her family, her village, wealthy.

When she was in danger, I didn't hesitate to directly intervene; until eventually it was her gift to see that began to be the cause of it. While I was so accustomed to hearing her talk to me I almost overlooked the fact that she was beginning to draw attention to herself. Many of the zealots around her began to suspect she was possessed with an evil spirit, and day and night I was forced to protect her from their superstitions.

My very presence became a detriment to her when my purpose was to be the opposite. I feared she would resent me, and in turn, I resented every human around her. I had already slain more than I could keep track of, but it only placed her in more danger. I was crossing precarious boundaries. I could be removed from duty, and I couldn't bear the idea of her being placed in another angel's charge.

I made the decision to appear to the elder of her tribe and threatened him with a fate worse than death if any harm came to her. Angels can appear and speak to humans, but only on instruction; something I didn't have. I ran the risk of being recalled to Heaven, but I wasn't. In fact, every one of my actions were seemingly being overlooked, and it only made me bolder. I began to appear physically to Isobel, showing her my wings, while fully aware I was passing the point of no return. But I was so beguiled by this beautiful, all-seeing human woman that I couldn't rest until I understood her body and soul.

This was when my fate was sealed, because I could not read her mind. The human mind is supposed to be open to us, open and subject to enticement and persuasion. Isobel's was as silent as the vacuum of space, and steadfastly unyielding to my unspoken commands.

I was so accustomed to her audible voice that it took me longer than it should have to realize I could not hear her mental one. I naively believed that her gift of sight was overshadowing her mind when I was in my body of light; until I realized that even in the flesh her mind was closed to me. This only reinforced my enchantment of her, forcing me to understand her from a more primitive level; as if I were another human. And it quickly became apparent to me that her heart and soul, even her silent mind, were more complex and sophisticated than I had ever given my father credit for.

As a guardian we are free to appear as men or women, but born of light, where as our human counterparts are born of flesh, we are too physically hypnotizing that we eclipse their senses and bedevil them. Of course, we can appear as any manner of human, from a child to an old woman, but there is no denying the sublime beauty that radiates through our encasement of flesh. This is the main reason why angels will not allow humans to become too familiar with their physical forms, because they will either begin to detect what they are, or they will unwittingly fall in love.

Isobel was no exception. I only ever appeared to her in the human equivalent of my angelic physicality—male and youthful—though she was already intimately aware that I was neither.

I continued protecting her from untimely deaths, as well as mercilessly murdering the ape-like males who desired in her a vessel to unleash their animalistic impulses. Until I began slaying prospective mates whose motives in her weren't so impure, and in doing so I was breaking my father's most dire of laws: no Sons of God must slay an innocent.

By that point, I had all but gone rogue.

As flesh, I had the strength of one hundred men, and I could unleash my wings and take to the sky at a moment's notice. Something I did often to protect her village from one invading army after another. I was careful to keep my wings concealed from most of her tribesman. Our wings are too confronting to the limited human scope and too much of a testament of knowledge they weren't permitted to know. Only Isobel had the privilege of seeing my wings, and by that time, I had broken every one of my father's laws with each breath I took as flesh and blood, bar one. That alone was the reason why His hand was stayed.

Originally a Watcher, I had observed human history for several thousand years. I understood the biological logistics of human anatomy and what led to the impregnation of females. Females that often did not survive as they struggled to bring forth the infant that gestated within their bodies. I knew one thing; I could not— _would not_ —allow Isobel to die in the crude and barbaric act of multiplying my father's creation, but more importantly, I could not bear the thought of witnessing her and a chosen mate in the act of conceiving it. I began to remove any and all males from her life that she had even the slightest regard for, and inevitably caused her yearning for me to grow. She was human, she was innately governed by the flesh, and she desired me. She desired me as I desired her, and I desired her so profoundly that it didn't cease when I rid myself of my human camouflage. I knew what the consequences were if I acted upon it. We all did. Thousands of our brothers had already been lost to us and cast out of Heaven. If I violated her, I would join them, and she would be lost to me forever.

For a decade of human years I fought it. I took to the physical only in the barest minimum of circumstances, and made sure to keep myself removed from her. We interacted only when I was in celestial form, when we were separated by the inevitable boundaries of our creation. She could see me, she could speak to me, and while I could speak to her in return, I chose not to. I only watched; as was my intended nature.

I naively believed it would lessen my desire for her. I faulted the human flesh I was often encased in and its inherent sexual impulses as the reason why I was losing all reason over this one human. It was to no avail, because there was a light that existed within Isobel that called to me. It called to me whether I was in the physical or spiritual, and _nothing_ could diminish it.

At its crux it was an injustice I could not begin to comprehend. My father had to be aware of this when he created her, but why?

The human body is a powerful physical entity, and we weren't designed to spend any length of time within it. For me, categorically, it took a lot of discipline and self-control not to become completely maddened by it. While it's an unnatural state of being for all angels, we still remained at risk of succumbing to its carnal temptations. That's exactly what I was allowing to happen to me. In flesh was when I felt that true affinity with Isobel, and the longer I spent encased within it the more my inclination for it grew. In flesh my senses became tangible, and I could reach out and touch her. I was well aware of where my actions could lead, but I was being driven by a force that felt as if it was outside my control.

It was a battle of restraint I was quickly losing, until I accepted my fate, forsaking myself in my father's house, and breaking His severest of laws, I kissed her. She'd thrown herself in my arms, begging me with tears flowing in rivers down her delicate face. She wanted me to be her husband, despite what I was, and in a single moment of weakness I completely surrendered. I took those softest of human lips between my own and in that one moment I fused entirely with the fruitless human body I was in.

And I felt _everything_.

It was an awakening I could not deny, nor was I willing to pull myself from. Acting on impulse alone, I tore her clothes from her body and laid her down on the makeshift straw bed on the earth-laden floor. I tasted and explored every inch of her human body, moving myself between her legs when I stopped myself. I have no idea where I found the strength of will, but as I braced myself above her, I extracted what was left of my rationality and broke myself from the grip of damnation.

"GET OUT— _NOW,_ ISOBEL!" I roared at her, my voice reaching a tenor that no human could duplicate. I meant to scare her, and I did.

"Dashiel!" she cried in the Paleo-Hebrew language of her age, and I could feel the vibration of shock and pain without the need to see her face. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean..."

" _Please..."_ I begged her desperately, keeping my eyes clamped shut even as I felt myself again weaken.

It was then I felt the momentary disruption in the Earth's electromagnetic field, immediately seizing my attention. It's not something humans can detect, but I knew instinctively it was an approaching angel. I sensed him long before I felt the radiation of energy that accompanied his proximity. Then before I became conscious of the next second, Gabriel had arrived to take me back home.

I fought him, steadfastly refusing to leave. As an archangel Gabriel was double my strength, but he struggled to detain me; eventually enlisting Michael. Archangel Michael is the strongest of all angels and he quickly overpowered me. Shoving me stomach first to the ground of Isobel's tent, he clamped his sandaled foot down on my head, his blade of light searing the flesh of my neck, while he and Gabriel bound my hands behind my back.

They were my last memories as Isobel's guardian, and she witnessed every second of it; her eyes sealed to mine. She screamed, begging my brothers to free me, but they were unmoved, and as I was dragged back to face retribution, her cries followed me through time and space.

Gabriel had come personally for me. Something alone which should have impressed upon me the seriousness of my actions. But it didn't, because by that point I had come to firmly believe that Isobel was meant not for frivolous human history, but for _me_.

I awaited my judgement and consequent punishment having absolutely no concept of what was about to happen to me. I had _not_ violated her, so I was confident I would not be cast out. Perhaps if I had known what my fate would be I might have thrown myself at the mercy of my father and begged His forgiveness. As it was, I was unmoved and remained solid in my convictions. She could see me and only me. What other purpose for her creation was there, other than for me? What I was unaware of at the time was that Isobel could see _all_ angels; I was not an exception.

For the sake of reference, this was during the third age of Heaven. The Great War had long since taken place, and Lucifer along with a third of the rank and order of angels had been cast out. Angels, however, continued to be cast out long after, and these angels more often than not fell into the order of Guardians and Watchers. Azazel was the first. He was among the first legion of watchers who taught mankind the art of warfare, of making weapons, and teaching them witchcraft, as well as leading both men and women into prostitution. He was also the first to fornicate with them. That was the act that caused him to fall. The rest our father was prepared to forgive him for, but the very instant when he implanted his seed into that first human female he was ripped from the grace of our father and into darkness.

What was consequently bred was the human/angel hybrid. An abomination in the eyes of God, and the reason for the great flood; something most humans aren't aware of or dismiss outright. In the biblical sense they're referred to as the Nephilim, giants; though, by the 21st century they're nothing more than a fairy tale.

Five thousand watcher and guardian angels in total were cast out of Heaven before they found their way to earth. I was one of them. My crime? Not defiling Isobel, not even kissing or coveting her. I was cast out for interfering in her life. I had altered the future of her genealogy, and prevented thousands of generations from being born. I had essentially made her obsolete.

It's important to note that while I was cast out I am not one of the fallen. I remain under the graces of my father, but I am damned to be reborn for generations to come; something I had also condemned Isobel to. There's a clause, however. If I can find her again, return to her the life I stole, and then sacrifice myself for her, I will be restored to my natural state and be allowed to re-enter Heaven. I have fifty human years to do this—the human equivalent of my angelic age at the time I was cast out—or I will die and be reborn. And, though I loosely appear human, I'm not one of them. Nor am I fully angel, but something in between. I am something that has never existed before.

Among all the angels and demons who walk the Earth, I am the only exception.


	3. Chapter 2

**The Fallen**

 **Chapter 2.**

As a human I am unnerving. With medium brown hair and light eyes I resemble my father, but the sublimity of my angel half makes me unnaturally beautiful and intelligent. While my IQ is a definite advantage, it along with my face, is also a detriment. I need to remain under the radar at all possible times, and in order to achieve that it's imperative that I don't stand out. But how do I do that when, by my very nature, I was created to stand out among men?

In the beginning I resorted to cutting my face or breaking my nose in order to at least pass as somewhat ordinary. Only my body heals at an accelerated rate and does not scar. Though, even if it was possible to bear the scars of injury, my eyes are a give-away. Humans often have beautiful eyes, but mine are still strikingly unnatural in their depth and intensity; no matter what color I'm born with. In this life they're green; so vividly green and penetrating that I resemble a predator.

I look like a vampire I've discovered from the infantile minds of the humans who pass me. _Le Stat, Nosferatu, Dracula_ , _Robert Pattinson,_ they muse to themselves, as their eyes meet mine in the second or two before they subconsciously recoil. Ridiculous, and I don't even bother to plant the seed of contradiction into their minds. It's poetic how humans can so easily dismiss anything spiritual as a myth and yet whole-heartedly believe in the absurd creations from their own imaginings.

Vampires don't exist; they wouldn't be _allowed_ to exist. Though there are any number of demons who walk among mankind who would relish in tasting their flesh and drinking their blood, they rarely will.

As an earth-bound angel born into flesh I am only a third of the strength of what I once was as a Heavenly Host in human form. That makes me only a fraction of the strength of the strongest amongst us, the archangels, but three times the strength of the fallen who wander the planet. Three or four demons I can usually handle, but large groups of them can easily overwhelm me. I've retained the ability to read and control the minds of the humans around me, so I can easily assess who and what pose a danger to me. The demons have gathered an army of willing humans to do their bidding, and while they can usually detect me on sight, I can dissect their minds and redirect them from half a mile away.

Three things pose the most danger to me. The first, my name; my real name that is. Every angel has a name that was uniquely selected by God, and that alone gives it a lot of power. Humans were never meant to know them, because when an angel's name is referenced _all_ hear it. The second is my wings. I am still forbidden to reveal them to humans. They represent too much evidence, and my father does not want his precious creation coming to him through absolutes. This is the same reason why demon possession—actual demon possession—is rarely made public, and angel and demon sightings are readily dismissed as hoaxes. There must be no proof. Though, not much convinces the humans these days. They've grown cynical and desensitized to most of the world's horrors. Horrors they themselves have inflicted upon one another.

I can shoot my wings out quickly if I need to take flight, but they, as well as becoming an immediate beacon to the wandering demons, cause me great pain. It's the kind of pain that, in four thousand years, I have yet to become immune to, and it can often incapacitate me long enough that I risk falling prey to the demons. If I need them to fight, I make sure I release them well in advance; otherwise, I will usually only unleash them on impulse to escape. In that retrospect they're my greatest asset because compared to the bat-like wings of the devils, I can travel at five times their speed.

My wings can be forced from me, though—agonizingly slowly—in the event that the name of my father is blasphemed in front of me. Once upon a time I could identify the human vermin practicing Satanism and witchcraft by their filthy minds alone, but in this age "Jesus Christ" and "God damn" is a mainstream, and no longer frowned upon, phrase to openly profess; even amongst the most harmless of humans. As a defense mechanism to this, I am rarely among large groups of them without earbuds wedged into my ears blasting out some form of benign music. Faith-based is usually the safest; no blasphemy. It became a necessity when I found I couldn't coerce the minds of hundreds of the blasphemers at once.

The third biggest danger to me are the fallen angels themselves. They hate me for one reason and one reason only; like them I am earth-bound and a prisoner of the flesh, but unlike them I am born into my incarceration, and therefore, remain under the graces of God. I am both angel and human: two of my father's most beloved creations. To kill me would strengthen them and give them greater power over their cast-out brethren. _Anything_ touched by the direct hand of God will strengthen them, and that includes Isobel. Isobel with the power to see and hear angels, and shield her mind, made her a seer, and therefore a target, and with me, her guardian angel, removed from duty she's unprotected.

The demons hunt me day and night, relentlessly, and though they've injured me numerous times, they've never been able to inflict anything more. If they ever do catch me they'll undoubtedly torture me to death. Since I'll be immediately reincarnated, it shouldn't be too much of a threat to me, but it is. If too much of their darkness is inflicted on me upon death, I'll eventually succumb to their legion. Imagine a dog who's bitten by a rabid bat. It has no control over its actions. The same will apply to me. The poison inflicted by them will infect me, akin to the zombie movies that humans are so fond of.

Although the demons are damned to darkness, in comparison to humans they too are conspicuous. Almost always male, they're handsome and charismatic, but unlike me who can mentally read and influence humans, they cannot. They must rely on their charms and prowess, and the 21st century has made their task easier than any other age. The occult is more popular today than it has ever been. Legions of humans are disaffected by traditions, and what they view as superstitions, but at the same time, they continue to search for something of substance. They're effortlessly ensnared. The beasts promise them riches, fame and pleasures of the flesh, and the humans willingly, heedlessly—never suspecting—follow; signing their souls away as if they were mere trinkets. Once marked for damnation, the unsuspecting human's guardians will become obsolete and will no longer hold domain over them. The demons are then free to defile or kill them as they see fit. Of course, there's always been breeds of humans who openly submit and serve the Greatest Deceiver, and in this age they have multiplied to numbers I doubt any of us ever expected.

The demons are forbidden to kill a human who's under angelic guard. They, like guardian angels, can only persuade and whisper to them. If one of the demons at any time attempts to directly kill a human, he himself will be killed by that person's guardian or watcher. A demon who loses his body of flesh will be forced to live out eternity as a spirit. Possessing the weakest of men and women, but unable to take over their bodies completely. The most wretched of all stature among the fallen, and something they will rarely risk. Aside from that one exception they are basically given free reign. I am not, however, given the same level of impunity. I was placed on this planet to exist among humans with three unbinding, non-negotiable laws that I must abide by if I ever hope to be restored among the Order of Angels. If I break any one of them, I will immediately forfeit any chance of salvation and be fully cast out of Heaven for good.

The first: I am forbidden to procreate with humans.

Doing so would create a hybrid, and incur the wrath of God so great I'd soon find myself beyond redemption.

The second: I cannot expose myself for what I am to the humans.

Michael has been charged with keeping watch over me, and if at any time he deems me reckless and corrupted enough that he feels the need to step in and kill me, I will stop being reborn and become a member of the fallen. Nothing, after all, survives a strike of Michael's sword.

And third: I cannot kill any person anointed by God.

This applies to Priests, Pastors, Monks, Nuns, Rabbis, Sheiks, any faithful person—extending now to those saved by the Baptism of the Messiah—or anyone with gifts only God Himself can bestow; Isobel for example. Though, I can always weed out the hypocrites from the faithful by their minds alone, so it's a simple enough rule to follow. On the other hand, the anointed and saved will often fall prey to the demons. To sway one of them is the ultimate achievement, and it's often difficult to immediately ascertain whether a holy man or woman is working for Elohim or _The Morning Star_.

There are hundreds of thousands of demons who inhabit the earth. The majority are the demons who were cast out after the Battle of Heaven with Lucifer himself. The fallen from my age, the watchers and guardians, make up only a very small percentage. When cast out of Heaven the beasts weren't thrown to Earth; rather they selected it as their sanctum in a final act of defiance. I am the only angel in existence who has ever been directly cast down to Earth.

For the time being the demons hold domain over the planet; until the Armageddon, at least, when they'll be sent to Hell and will have no need for a human body. Only they're vain and full of delusions. They genuinely believe that they'll be able to change the final outcome of the Apocalypse, and they won't give up their human bodies without a fight. They relish being flesh and blood while I, on the other hand, despise it.

Being condemned to Earth to live thousands of years while I searched for Isobel's reincarnation near drove me repeatedly mad. I did everything in my power to earn my forgiveness and buy my way back into Heaven and my father's good graces. I joined various priesthoods, devoting my life and bringing millions of humans to Him. I spent hundreds of years preaching, blessing, and casting out evil spirits. Humans flocked from every continent to see me and hear me speak, seeing in me my inherent beauty as evidence that I was of my father. But it was all to no avail. He remained just as indifferent to me and my pleas as He did in the beginning.

I eventually fell into despair, living in apathy and remaining detached and uncaring. Having lost all hope of finding Isobel, I removed myself from the humans I was condemned to embody. I became almost savage, only paying attention enough to make sure I didn't violate my father's trio of laws set down for me.

For too many centuries I lived out the majority of my fifty years as a recluse, but after the second millennia of my existence, I began to hear the whisperings of a prophecy unfolding; that the Messiah had been born. After two thousand years of living in constant sin and immorality, our father stepped in to save His "likeness" from themselves and their own innate inadequacies and predisposition for transgressions.

God in the flesh and earth-bound, as I was.

I saw it as a path for redemption. Surely, if my father was prepared to extend His hand to his favored creation, then it would apply to me, as well. After all, I was in a sense one of his precious "humans".

It goes without saying that I am forbidden to interfere in human history. Michael has halted my actions and forbade me from entering certain cities several times over the course of my four millennia of living. It's a rare occurrence if he does so now, but Jerusalem, for the most part, was once off limits to me and continued to be for several hundred years after.

Though, with the Messiah alive and walking among us, I naively believed that the rules would be suspended, and I would be allowed near Him.

Michael stopped me at the gates of Damascus, and for the first time in my human existence, he came infinitely close to severing my head from my shoulders with his light-bladed sword.

"You cannot pass, brother!" he warned me, holding his sword to my throat without a sliver of hesitation. The threat of his stance was genuine, letting me know in no uncertain terms that he would kill me without regard if I remained on my present trajectory.

"Am I the only human forbidden to humble myself before our father in the flesh?" I demanded, impatient and full of indignation.

"You are _not_ a human," he reminded me, his expression scornful.

"I am still His _son_!" I declared angrily.

"A son who defied Him! You've received your judgement and now you must make peace with it. Find your human seer."

"I have searched for _two millennia_?" I reminded him, filling with frustration before falling to my knees. "Does she even walk this earth?"

He appeared to take a breath, his stance easing for a fraction. "The beasts are killing her while she's in the womb, or very soon after. Spilling her blood when she's at her most innocent ensures that they will become powerful," he relayed to me, and for the longest moment I could not move, or breathe—or conceive—of what he was speaking. "You revealed her to them, brother, and without you she is vulnerable." There was a burning pity in his eyes, as if he could comprehend my pain, but to me it was a mockery.

"AND YOU ALLOW THIS!?" I roared, pulling myself to my feet where I found the blazing light of his sword directly to my jugular once more.

"You marked her, brother, when you took up this _infatuation_ with her," he spat, his expression twisting in repulsion. " _You_ showed contempt for our father, _you_ questioned Him, and now your human must suffer the consequences of your arrogance."

"Then, what is the point of any of it—if she is slain before I can ever hope to find her?!" I challenged him, my resentment once more supplanting my despair. "I cannot detect her mind. I am blind to her."

"Your charge is to find her. Did you honestly think the beasts would not use it to their advantage? I pity you, brother." He shook his head slowly at me, but his eyes remained steeled to mine, his warning not wavering.

"You _should_ pity me, for I am FORSAKEN!" I seethed, turning my back on him and unleashing my wings in a blistering moment of torment before I prepared to take flight.

This is when Michael laid his hand on my shoulder, forcefully turning me to face him. His eyes this time were instilled with compassion. As compassionate as he is capable of being, at least. "Go to Jericho and seek out the baptist. Be reborn through water, brother. It will anoint and strengthen you."

I found this wiled-eyed Judean two days later, preaching on the Jordan riverbed, north of the Dead Sea, to three dozen men and women. He stood waist-high in the muddy water wearing a filthy camel's-hair garment and gesturing wildly to the heavens before back to his captive audience. This was when his eyes met mine, hidden partially as they were by my sackcloth cloak that I had draped over my head.

He knew instantly who and what I am.

"Bar 'elaha!" he exclaimed in Aramaic [son of God] and something which made me instantly scoff to myself with bitterness. Then pulling himself from the water before me he dropped to his knees and grabbed my sandaled feet.

"Rise, brother," I murmured to him in the same Semitic language, almost dragging him to his feet impatiently when he continued to prostrate himself before me; while all three dozen humans around me began to follow suit.

"Malak?" he asked me discreetly after he'd pulled himself shakily to his feet.

Malak [angel], and in response I only nodded once. It was a half-truth.

"Malak," he repeated in reverence, bowing once more before I gripped his shoulder, preventing him from continuing.

"Baptize me," I instructed him.

He only gazed at me, his eyes widening, and what was evident without the need to read his mind was that he didn't understand.

"You baptized The Messiah, did you not?" I snapped in frustration.

"Yeshua M'sheekha [Jesus the Messiah]." He nodded with passion, before going off into a tangent of prayers and praise while swapping back and forth from Greek to Aramaic in his zeal.

"In the name of Elohim..." I muttered half beneath my breath before abandoning my current course and silently compelling him.

Without another word spoken, he took me by the elbow and guided me toward the edge of the river. I discarded my outer garments and removed my sandals before stepping into the clay-laden water. It was sanctified, and the instant my foot broke the surface an energy so divine, so hallowed, immediately burned through my entire body of skin; instantly tearing my wings from each shoulder blade, painlessly.

Light filled and flooded all seven of my senses rendering me for several human seconds in a state of shock, before I collapsed in complete release into the water. It was the first time in the two thousand years that I'd been imprisoned on Earth that I'd felt the very grace and forgiveness of my father.

The Baptist blessed me, pushing me back into the holy water with an almost comical shock besetting his face. I sobbed openly, beseeching both his and my father's forgiveness before I silently thanked him and rapidly propelled myself into the air. I was so overwhelmed with emotion, I needed to escape. Not to mention, I allowed too many humans to witness the truth about me. In doing so I broke the second of my father's rules set down for me, but since the baptist already knew what I was before my wings were revealed, I didn't harbor too much concern that Michael would come hunting for me. Especially considering it was he himself who'd set me after the Baptist in the first place.

Though, it wouldn't be the first time that my brother said one thing and did another...

A month later night became day and the entire earth shook to its foundations, cracking and crumbling homes and temples from The Dead Sea, to the Sea of Galilee, and The Great Sea to the west. A phenomena which was followed by a pulse of great despair that swept over the lands, and bringing me to my hands and knees.

My father in the flesh had fulfilled the prophecies of the second Passover. He had become the sacrifice, the lamb, so that through Him His children might have everlasting life.

Except for me.

He'd sacrificed himself for the love of His flock; something I'm condemned to do for Isobel. If I can ever find her.

The baptism greatly empowered me. My mind and senses after, and to this day, were enhanced and heightened; to the point that I could read the thoughts of the demons as well as the ability to scan through hundreds of human minds per second. It greatly assisted in my search for Isobel. I searched day and night for any detection, any whisper of her; of her in infant form, of her name—no matter how implausible that was—and of any blind spots in my radar that her silent mind might create.

Every time my search ended, it ended in futility. The demons were indeed killing her almost the moment she was born; when she was at her most innocent. It was on every one of the fiends' minds: the blessed human who had no guardian. It caused me to repeatedly question the point of my living fifty human years when she could not live one. Yet, I completed life after life, each one bleeding ceaselessly into the next, for absolutely nothing.

Nothing; not for another two thousand years.


	4. Chapter 3

**A/N: Again, I suck. If you read this before you'll know what I missed originally - if you decide to reread. If not, that's cool.**

* * *

 **The Fallen**

 **Chapter 3.**

My childhood is normal, average, but privileged. I'm homeschooled at my own insistence. My objective in the first two decades of each life is the same as every other human's; to prepare for independence. Not to find a job, marry and have children, but to pick up where I left off in my search for Isobel while staying one step ahead of the beasts who hunt me relentlessly.

Nevertheless, I'm every bit the prodigal son my parents had been hoping for. I'm brilliant and musically gifted. I was four when I could pull off Mozart's concerto #23; though, I had three centuries to perfect it.

Occasionally, I perform at various cocktail parties and functions of my parents, impressing their blue-blooded friends and colleagues. I have to be careful, though. It's imperative that I redirect any intentions they might have of mentioning my name to an undesirable person who could be connected to the beasts. Without my wings I'm vulnerable.

"Oh, what beautiful eyes he has!" Their guests will often exclaim, fascinated, before they almost immediately paused to consider it.

From their minds I understand their thought process. They inherently know there's something not quite right about me but they're not prepared to question it.

Humans have grown too cynical for their own good. They will sooner believe I have some exotic chromosomal abnormality than even remotely entertain the notion that I am not of this world.

At the age of nine my parents have my IQ tested. I score 150, classifying me as profoundly intelligent in comparison to the average human. Though, I did sabotage it to keep my true intelligence concealed. Again, it's important I don't alert the demons. They keep close track of gifted children. More often than not they're anointed, and to spill the blood of the anointed provides them with the power to reform if they're killed by an angel.

Of course, their chances of taking out guardians and watchers to get to their charges are non-existent, but the fiend's are patient and will work for years to turn the unsuspecting humans to their legion.

As Isobel's Guardian it was my duty to protect her from the fallen demons who were cast out with Lucifer, and their human sycophants. If she reincarnated I would have followed. If I had become fallen like Azazel, she would have been granted another guardian, but because I am neither fallen nor angel, it places her in an obscure plain between Heaven and Earth. She's condemned to live as many lives as I am; though, she is infinitely more vulnerable.

As much as I wish it weren't so, what Michael disclosed to me all those centuries ago is the truth. I've read it in the beasts' minds; Isobel isn't being allowed to live beyond infanthood. The demons are sacrificing her, which not only gives them the power to regain their human forms, but also gives them more strength. Making them as strong as me, and in some cases, even stronger.

It's not difficult to ascertain their motives. They seek vengeance for being cast out on those who remain under my father's grace. Though their intent is to take on the angels, they are not their final objective.

Their aim is against God Himself.

I usually reach angelic maturity around the human age of twenty-one. To be absolutely sure my parents don't get caught up in the crosshair of the curse that is my existence, I usually "disappear" as soon as I begin experiencing the first signs; which is usually around four weeks prior. Being that my parents conceived a half angel, _a Host of the Lord_ , despite the nature of my banishment, they are almost always the target of both physical and disembodied demonic oppression upon discovering my human identity. And more dangerously, they often fall prey to the demon's human minions.

During my earlier lives I used to stay and protect them from the swarming masses of demons and humans alike who'd come for them, but with me being also anointed, I took a huge risk of indirectly empowering the fiends if they killed me.

I have no guardian to protect me, after all. Not even on behalf of my human fraction, and while the beasts can only entice my parents into perdition, they will not hesitate to openly attack me.

Not long before my twenty-first year, and half-way through my Law degree at Harvard—I could have completed the entire course in under half the standard time, but again, I had to remain under the radar for my own safety, as well as that of my family—I begin to experience the first pangs of my coming wings. This is when I sit my parents down and tell them I'm "burnt out" and need to take a "sabbatical".

My father is already disappointed in me for choosing law over medicine, but if I put myself through one more medical degree I would have torn my eyes from their sockets. I already resent the human race, and more importantly, the wretched body of flesh I'm condemned to, so I certainly have no interest in restoring them when they become maimed or diseased.

I don't get afflicted with ailments. My angel-half cures any illness before it can overrun my body, but I am susceptible to injury and death like most humans; if I sustain enough damage, that is. It takes a lot more to kill me than it does the average human. I know this because I've attempted (and failed) to kill myself numerous times, and I've taken on enough damage from the demons and survived to know what I can and cannot withstand. And with the ability to heal rapidly it's unlikely that I will ever succumb to any real injury.

The only full-proof method of killing me is removing my head—or heart—from my body, or of course, waiting for me to "time-out".

After the fiftieth year of my life I will go into cardiac arrest and will be unable to be revived. I'm never certain of the exact time or date, but it happens anywhere from the day after the anniversary of my birth to a couple of months later.

Nevertheless, it's still of some importance to me—for the purposes of my survival and preservation—to maintain my understanding of human anatomy and physiology, and so usually once or twice in half a millennia I put myself through another tedious medical course.

My last was in 1921, and so breaking a long-standing tradition of "Cullen men" I chose Law.

"For how long, Edward?" my father asks me, taking a weary breath.

"A year," I answer, attempting to keep my tone empathetic towards my father's _hopes and expectations_ for me. I have no intention of returning, and I know how acutely my human death will devastate both he and my mother.

I'll go hiking in the Andes and simply disappear, or the Aokigahara Forest in Japan—people go missing there on a daily basis. Or perhaps the Catacombs of Paris. The possibilities are endless. My only concern is remaining conscious of the feelings of my parents, and how the separation from them will inevitably affect all of us. They won't get any closure from my disappearance; no body to bury, just an empty coffin and unanswered questions and prayers.

It's the cruelest part of my hybrid existence.

As much as I've attempted to keep myself detached from them, I've failed. For the first time in the near century of lives I've lived I found a pair of humans that I respect. My father is incredibly intelligent, more so than my apparent test results at the age of nine, and I enjoy our discussions. He challenges me more than I thought any human was capable of, and my mother is his equivalent in love and compassion. She epitomizes what I once believed my father was—what I'd once felt for Isobel—and no matter what my shortcomings are as her son, I know there is nothing I can do that will cause her to abandon me.

I, on the other hand, have no choice but to abandon her.

"That's fine, son," my father concedes; though, it's apparent he's not happy about it before he places his hand on my shoulder and squeezes. "Do what you must."

"I just need to spread my wings," I add, almost smirking to myself from my unwitting inside joke.

My father does smile, his expression relaxing as he does. He believes what I really want to do is "sow my wild oats", which is laughable. I can't even if I wanted to, and I _do_ want to. All this wretched body of mine does is constantly, unendingly, push me towards its most basic of instincts; to procreate. I barely get a moment's relief from it; the crude, animalistic desires that practically dominate my every thought.

"I asked my father the same thing at your age, son," he admits, rubbing his chin with his grin growing broad as he recalls his wild years. Something I'm forced to participate in as image after image of my father engaging in sexual exploits in his youth projects through his memories. "Only, he refused to permit it. I won't do that to you. Your life is your own."

I leave a week later with the intention of going "backpacking" through the Australian outback. The deserts of Australia claim scores of unsuspecting tourists every year. It's an easy thing to do. My car will break down and I'll abandon it and start wandering the desert for help. The barometer will begin to climb into the 120s, and I'll quickly run out of water. I'll have no choice but to leave the road in search of it. I won't last more than an hour, at best.

At least that will be the consensus.

My body? With six hundred square miles of arid landscape to cover, it could be years before it's uncovered, and not even remotely unheard of if it's never found. Of course, I will plant my car somewhere where it won't be immediately discovered, but when I leave it won't be to die. I will be thousands of miles away in another continent before I'm even missed.

My family will eventually accept the inevitable. They'll have a funeral and bury an empty casket, and that will be the end of Edward Anthony Cullen.

I'll become another name etched in stone.

At the airport my mother hugs and kisses me goodbye, attempting to keep her composure as she makes me promise the usual things; to stay safe, keep in contact, be respectful.

Assuring her repeatedly, I kiss her back, before turning to my father and extending my hand. "Goodbye, Dad."

"Have fun, son," he adds begrudgingly, accepting my hand before slapping my back for good measure, and that's that.

Another family abandoned.

I'm reported missing twelve weeks later; eight weeks after my wings came in.

My name and face are splashed across every television set in both Australia and the United States. "The only son of world renowned Cardiac Surgeon, Carlisle Cullen, missing in the Australian outback, feared dead". For several weeks I dominate the headlines before slowly the story drifts into obscurity as my case, and whereabouts, turn cold.

The pain I feel over it this time is almost as bad as growing my wings in.

The first signs they're imminent are when the muscles in my back start separating and realigning. Next it becomes more grueling; my spine begins stretching and reinforcing to make room for the expansive humerus and radius bones of my "second arms". Once established, the final phase begins; my wings slowly begin to shoot from my scapula bones and through my flesh.

It is the most excruciating agony I will ever experience, lasting on average twelve hours, and by the end of it, I'm literally screaming and cursing at Michael, and my father, to bring me merciful death.

It's the most dangerous time period for me because while I'm going through the transition I am incapacitated. I'll be unable to defend myself if I'm attacked, and I'll be an easy kill for the demons.

The first time it happened I had no idea what was happening to me, other than believing it was another facet of my punishment. When an angel working on Earth in the flesh releases its wings it's no more or less painful than a human growing hair and fingernails. We can feel the rush of motion as they unleash and extend in a matter of seconds, but nothing more. For an Earth-bound, half-cast like me, there is no human equivalent.

I learned very early on to hide myself as far away as I could find during the final twenty-four hours, and always within close proximity of consecrated ground. Somewhere the humans won't hear my cries of agony, and where the fallen will not venture close.

For this transformation, I choose a dilapidated timber church with a rusty, corrugated iron roof; built at the turn of the 20th century in southern Western Australia. The town was moved five miles north after the arrival of the railway during the 1950s, and the church has long since been abandoned; its upkeep left to church group volunteers. The town itself is quiet and has a population of less than a thousand souls. A mining town on red earth with a single main road that passes through its center.

Occasionally the church is opened for historians and tourists. Otherwise, it remains securely locked. After closer inspection, I discover there's no vandalism, nor any signs of an attempted break-in. The townsfolk are respectful and superstitious. I like that—little chance I'll be interrupted mid-transition.

At dusk, on a temperate early-June day, I bury myself inside for the arduous night ahead of me; doing my best to muffle the roars of torment that burst from me for thirteen consecutive hours.

Until it's done.

The very instant my wings are fully released and unfurled every angel on the planet knows about it. They act as a built-in sonar to my kind—whether fallen or otherwise—and while the guardians, watchers and archangels who wander the earth will care very little, the wretched of our species take a very keen interest.

I'm a target, a prize for the fiends, and my exact whereabouts is suddenly being broadcast throughout the planet.

While the devils know when and where the instant my wings are released, they can't track me in any other way than to follow me. And with their delicate, featherless, thin-membraned wings, I'm faster. I'm a lot faster—no matter how much blood of my anointed Isobel they've spilled.

The ability to read their minds is my only advantage, because the transition has taken a lot of my strength. I take immediately to the air, evading the demons as they attempt to cut me off and ambush me. I go as high into the atmosphere as I can tolerate to increase the distance I travel, before dropping down clumsily in the pitch of night somewhere in the jungles of South America.

I grasp at my chest, my lungs heaving—my heart rapid and heavy. I'd come dangerously close to being captured, but the narratives of the beasts' minds had distracted me, catching me completely off guard until I'd almost fallen from the sky in shock.

They were all transmitting the same information, all at once, blurred together with the appendage of excitement and blood lust it was causing them.

Isobel, or rather _Isabella,_ as they'd referred to her as, is alive.


	5. Chapter 4

**The Fallen**

 **Chapter 4**

For the first time in the four millennia that I've lived I hunt the fallen of my kind; I hunt them with the intention of killing them. It's a dangerous game I'm playing, but while they covet Isobel they're my only link to her. And I simply cannot allow the beasts who salivate over her death to live.

I immediately set out from South America to track them. I start with the demons who pursued me from Australia and follow them for three weeks to Asia before I realize they know little more than what I'd heard in their thoughts that first night; that she's alive. Nothing more. They haven't seen her in the flesh and they have no idea where she is.

Frustrated, I head back to Australia and then on to the United States to start over when I cross paths with Michael. I'd been tracking a devil through San Francisco for five days; a devil who through his mind I caught the first glimpses of Isobel. It was from behind and afar, an image of a slim figure wearing a hooded sweater, but it was enough to bring me near to my knees while almost giving my position away.

The beasts will sense me long before they see me, so it's important that I maintain a cautious distance from them, but the instant I'd caught the grainy images of Isobel in its mind, I hastened my step. I have no idea what I planned on doing, but before I could find out, Michael intervened.

"I cannot allow this to go on for much longer, brother," he states darkly, his gold eyes penetrating as he draws his wings back beneath his human encasement.

He'd dragged me into a filthy alley-way where intoxicated vagrants sleep inside make-shift cardboard boxes unaware that they're suddenly in the presence of the highest ranking guardian of the Angelic Host.

 _The right hand of God,_ my thoughts mock _._

I jerk his grip from my shoulder and turn myself to fully face him, indignant.

"After four thousand years you've suddenly come to the conclusion that I need help?" I demand sarcastically. "Go back to the Calvary, Michael. I can handle this."

To my surprise, he smirks, almost openly laughing to himself. "You're more human now than you were ever a member of the Order, _Edward_."

Fuming, I turn my back on him. "If you're here to kill me, brother, do it. If not, _leave_. I have nothing to say to you."

For several seconds he says nothing, before the abrupt metallic sound of his sword being pulled from its scabbard slices through the silence between us. I instinctively go tense before a sense of inevitability and acceptance filters through me. I'm ready for this godforsaken existence to be done with—I've been ready for centuries—but I find myself almost snorting poetically that it's now; now when I've finally discovered the trail to my human.

He doesn't kill me, though. Instead, he impatiently turns me back to him and shoves the hilt of the sword into my hand.

"Because of you and your seer the demons have found a way to escape death and are multiplying in strength. They're shifting the balance on Earth, and it's up to you to restore it. I've placed your human out of harm's way, but that's all I can do," he barks out at me, angered; as if it went without saying and he were demeaning himself by the act of explaining it.

"Where is she!?" I burst, surprised by the desperation in my own voice.

Michael only arches an eyebrow at me; he's aware that I already know the answer, and the tedium of my question has annoyed him.

It's _my_ penance to find her, not his.

Steeling a breath, I shift my focus to the sword in my hands. "Will I have the power to kill them, brother?"

"My sword in the hands of any angel can kill the beasts—that includes insubordinate half-breeds like you," he seethes, clearly less than impressed with this decision he's made.

My brother wields three swords all for different purposes. The first of light, which is his predominant weapon of choice, and the one artists have been depicting him with for thousands of years. The second, the Sword of Truth, and the third, the Sword of Justice; the sword he has just bestowed on me. All his swords are made both of light and a living steel-like mineral forged in Heaven, and not only do they have the power to remove a demon from its incarnated flesh, but send them directly to Hell.

I look down at it, testing out the weight of it in my grip. I can feel the power it emanates traveling up my human arm and pushing throughout my body. It's heavy, but not physically. It's heavy by the great burden of Heaven it places upon me; a cast-out angel.

"Why haven't you stepped in and killed them before now?" I inquire, confused; though, I shouldn't be. While Michael is the head of our father's army, he rarely exerts his power on Earth, but he soon will.

"Because this falls upon you, brother, and I am forbidden to intervene," he answers, revealing his vanity in his brazen resentment. There's nothing Michael takes pleasure in more than slaying the fallen, after all.

I nod, but as his wings slowly unfold it's clear he is already beyond this.

"End this, now, _Dashiel_!" He sneers at me, knowing he's just directly called the demons to me, before in a blinding radiation of light, he is gone.

Discarding the scabbard that he abandoned on the ground, I hastily turn to exit the dead-ended alley, but am immediately confronted by three fiends who block my escape route.

"Dashiel..." one of them drawls out, repeating Michael's broadcast. "You don't know how long I've waited for this."

They advance on me slowly, and I know from the leader's vile mind that he's killed Isobel twice. And though still not quite as strong as me, he's considerably stronger than the two who flank him.

He's the one I have to strike down first.

"Do your best, _swine_ ," I taunt him, raising the sword—the sword they do not initially recognize as Michael's—and defiantly stare him down. Only to be met with their laughter.

"That won't help you, brother," the beast, Uzza, mocks me, ignorantly believing him and his cohorts will be able to overpower me, but in the event I do kill him, he'll be restored not long after.

Not by my brother's sword, however.

He lunges at me, his talon-like fingers flexing in preparation to wrap around my throat, when without hesitation, and in one strike of the blade, I sever the demon's head from his shoulders. His body thuds heavily to the ground, his inanely shocked head rolling around my feet before both halves of him explode into an eruption of burning ash.

It reeks of sulfur and putrefied flesh, and repulsed I take a shuddering step backward, covering my nose and mouth with my forearm before my focus falls on the two beasts remaining. They stare at horror and disbelief at the smoking ruins of their ringleader. One stares back at me, his expression twisting with contempt, while the other stumbles clumsily away from me wide-eyed with fear.

I take out the second, whose noxious body dissolves into embers less than a second after the blue light of Michael's blade slices through his torso. His name I don't catch, nor do I care, before I set my sights on the coward who has already turned and fled.

He's hoping he can make it to the safety of the crowds before I catch him, knowing I cannot reveal myself, but at best he's naïve. I can run at three times the speed of the fastest man on the planet, and I have him by the neck of his black wool coat not three seconds later.

Dragging him back to the same alley, I push him against the wall and round on him; bringing the blade of the sword directly to his rotting skin. It burns him, creating a path of simmering flesh from his ear down to his chest.

"Please, brother—I beg you!" he cries, writhing futilely against the searing light of the sword I hold steadfast against him.

I scan his thoughts and quickly realize he's harmless, lowly ranking and pitiful. He's never embraced his position within the status of the fallen, and more often than not he's resented it; mourning for the loss of his position amongst the Angelic Host. He's never pursued an anointed, nor has he sought to kill Isobel. He, like me, had fallen in love with his guard. Only he had impregnated her with the hybrid monster which had ultimately killed her, and to this day it torments him still.

Almost without conscious thought, I release him, stepping away from him and recoiling instinctively from his thoughts.

"Go," I command, pointing my finger to the streets beyond, but unable to meet his gaze.

"Thank you, brother," he murmurs, and when I look up I realize he hasn't moved. "My name is Ramuell."

" _Was_ ," I correct him, knowing that name was stripped from him the moment he fell.

"I will _always_ be Ramuell," he challenges me; he's affronted by my assertion.

I hold his gaze for a moment; his memories are overrun with his human, and it is almost too much for me to bear. Her name was Asenath and she loved him too. Clearing my throat roughly, I shift my eyes to the now healing wound the sword has left him. Demons, like me, are quick healing, but _unlike_ me, they're left scarred. This demon is covered in them; no doubt inflicted by his own kind. By their own nature they're jealous, and they'll willfully mutilate another of their kind if it's to their advantage. Ramuell's tall and fair, and has piercing blue eyes; by all definition a rival to any one of them.

The irony is they could each have their own legion of humans, but like the hyenas they are, they're only interested in power and hierarchy.

"Okay, _Ramuell,_ tell me something," I pause to gauge his response. He only nods compliantly. " _Where_ is Isobel?" My voice drops to a sharp whisper that makes him cringe subtly away from me.

He shakes his head, almost desperately. "I do not know, brother. It's a closely guarded secret among only a small group of us."

I'm fully aware he's speaking the truth, I knew before I put the question to him, but I had to ask, nonetheless. The reward of her death over the last several hundred years has become only for the honor of a select few.

Sucking my breath in through my nose, frustrated, I nod my head before demanding, "How many have shed her blood?"

He blinks, unable to disguise his growing panic. He's already broken the binding covenant of his kind, and although his fellow demons can't kill him, they can make his wretched life unbearable. He'll have no other choice now but to go rogue.

"Two hundred, maybe three," he answers regardless and despite his evident apprehension, but something in him is emboldened; he's relieved.

I nod again, appraising it before questioning him further. "How many hunt her now—who are they?"

"I know of only five, but there's more. Her death is rotated among them."

"Names— _give me their names_!" I roar, causing him to lurch back away from me, finding himself again flat against the wall.

"Bezzael, Rizkeel, Ozketh, Zelbukh, and E-Ezekeel," he stammers.

I analyze him for a moment, listening as the same list of names ebbs and flows back through his mind, before I'm satisfied.

I nod in acknowledgement before motioning him to step closer. "I want you to make it known among your _filthy, heathenish kind_ that I carry Michael's sword, and _Ha Shem Adonai Eloheinu [in the name of Lord God]_ "—I lower my suddenly trembling, seething voice and speak in Hebrew—"I will cut their hearts out!"

"I will, brother," he promises, nodding jerkily, "and if you ever need me, call me and I will come."

"How many are like you?" I quiz him suddenly curious, and he understands my meaning without having the need to expand upon it.

"More than you know," he answers, lowering his eyes. He's ashamed, but he's fully accepting of his punishment. However, it's not even remotely enough to quell the cataclysm of guilt he feels over the fate of his human.

He mourns the loss of her more than he does our father.


	6. Chapter 5

**The Fallen**

 **Chapter 5.**

The demon I'd been tracking in San Francisco is long gone.

Michael's name is spoken openly on Earth, knowing no demon would dare challenge him and live, and most will flee the instant he appears among them—like cockroaches startled by sudden light. It's more than likely this reason why more of the fiends didn't confront me after Michael had spoken my name in the alley; they'd first heard his spoken by me.

Undaunted, I unleash my wings, ignoring the bone shattering pain that for a brief moment threatens to cripple me, and wait; letting them come to me.

By the end of the night, I've slain more than twenty of the beasts before I catch one of the names I'd been searching for in their minds: Ezekeel. I interrogate the demon well into the following day, slicing at his reeking flesh with the tip of the sword's blade; leaving him scarred and disfigured until he gives up the details I need. He's relentlessly unshakable and keeps his mind sealed from me. It takes a lot to break him, but I relish in it. The devil has ended one of Isobel's lives in infanthood, and that alone is enough to ensure his torture.

Ezekeel was last seen in Scotland not one month ago. I head there the instant I plunged the sword into the demon's chest, slicing his fetid heart in two and rendering him to ash.

Word quickly gets out that I'm in possession of Michael's sword, and suddenly, instead of the demons hunting me, they flee from me on sight. As emancipating as it is, it becomes a hindrance, and ironically I'm forced to go back to concealing myself from them.

I track the demons throughout Europe and the Mediterranean, and back again to the United Kingdom; killing them when I'm no longer in use of them as I slowly chart a map to the five fiends who stalk Isobel. It's in Wales when I finally catch a glimpse of Ezekeel himself in the minds of the local demons, and in Birmingham England when I first spot him in the flesh.

Like the predator I have become, I stalk the demon by night. I keep to the sky as often as I can, while leaving my wings free and extended when I'm on land; in the event that I need to take flight again suddenly. It inhibits me from intermingling with the humans—there's no way I can conceal my wings when I leave them released—but it's the only way I can scan the demon's mind without him becoming aware of my presence while keeping myself at a best advantage if he decides to challenge me. I'm under no illusions with this fiend. He's a fallen angel strengthened and emboldened by the flesh of hundreds of the anointed. He's stronger than I am.

His thoughts are monopolized greedily by her, and through his memories I see her. I see her for the first time in four thousand years; every facet of her life, from infanthood to young woman.

God in heaven, she's beautiful.

She's so beautiful she draws my breath in reflex and causes my heart to falter. It's not some inherent partiality of mine; I've been around humans enough to know what is considered attractive, and she is undoubtedly, universally beautiful.

She's young, around the same age as I am, or perhaps fractionally younger, and her frame is delicate and petite. While I have recently reached my maximum height of 6'2, she appears—in comparison to the humans around her—no more than 5'3 Her hair is dark; the rich color of coffee beans, with elements of red chestnut that's highlighted by the scarce English sunshine. It's long, reaching her mid-back, and she often wears it free as it falls over her shoulders in layers of waves.

The demon's mind is an open book, he's unaware of my presence, and in a matter of thirty minutes I know the entire history of her life. Her name is indeed Isabella. Isabella Swan. When she was first conceived in her mother's womb, Michael transported them to St Mary's Convent here in Birmingham, and placed them under the protection of The Sisters of Mercy. He left her with a charm, a gemstone from the Sea of Galilee and blessed by the Apostle Luke. From birth Isabella has worn it on a chain around her neck, and the demons have not slain her because they have not been able to get closer to her than half a mile. Her mother, Renee, was killed not long after Isabella was born—by the beast's human minions. The same minions he has stalking her every move as he watches from afar.

I tell myself that if the demon and his humans attack the convent itself, I will intervene. After all, revealing myself to the company of nuns isn't exactly exposing myself, since they're one of the most faithful and stringent of believers on the planet. Though, for a demon to enter a house of God is like a human being forced to swim upstream through a rapidly flowing river as their blood burns through their veins. It will handicap him, leaving him vulnerable. No, he won't enter the convent unless he has no other choice.

Day and night for months and years the demon has been coveting her, his vile, repugnant fantasies forcing me to steel myself so I don't kill him—yet. He's grown impatient, but determined. It's his turn, he asserts, and he's waited two decades. He's compelled hundreds of human parasites to seize her and snatch the talisman from around her neck, but the sisters have kept her under close watch.

Until recently.

She's growing restless and rebellious. She wants to leave, and she does so every day; leaving the 18th century Pugin structure and its looming brick walls to walk the village and talk to the locals. She follows the same path every day; she exits the convent and heads north past rows of red brick and painted Victorian terraces until she reaches Georges Park. There she spends roughly two hours reading and watching children play on the playground equipment, before walking a further three blocks to a general store where she buys herself a coffee. She chats to the clerk for several minutes before she again exits the store and heads west back to the convent. A few of the sisters will often trail behind her, and while she's unaware of the men who haunt her every move, they are not.

From that moment on I know only one thing; I Ezekeel will die.

My only option is to kill him by stealth. I make my mind up to swoop down upon him by air, catching him off guard and striking his head from his shoulders. I'll need to act swiftly because he will have a couple of second's reaction time before I reach him. Once I'm within one hundred feet of the demons they start to sense me, and I sense them. The window of opportunity is limited.

The demon rarely ventures further than a mile from the convent. He lurks in the shadows, waiting, hoping; preparing himself if ever the opportunity arises. He is contemplating an attack against her in broad daylight by his humans, and once the charm is removed from her he'll pounce. It will only take one of the vermin who serve him to pull it from her, despite the fact that the powers within cause them to recoil from it almost as equally.

If that happens I will be waiting.

Three days later his decision is locked in. He will sacrifice any number of his legion of humans for Isabella, and the simpletons will willingly go to their deaths for him.

Time has run out.

He waits for Isabella to go for her daily walk, when he signals his humans to once more follow her. They're instructed to pull her into a laneway between the terrace structures, twenty feet from the general store. I know while his concentration is firmly fixed on my human girl, he'll be distracted to anything else.

I will use it to my advantage.

I am two miles above the devil's head, and through his dissolute eyes, I see Isabella leave through the iron gates of the convent. I cannot accurately measure how far he is from her, but he's close enough that he can see her clearly. The closeness is difficult for him, but he forces himself to bear it.

The fierce protection I feel for her, along with the building rage I harbor for the beast who hunts her, strengthens and fortifies my resolve.

He dies today.

He waits impatiently, greedily in the shadows between two terrace houses, until she finishes reading her book in the park. At this point I feel his heart spike in anticipation and know this is when I have to strike. I plunge downward in a perfect vertical trajectory, pushing the limits of the speed I travel. I don't have miles enough to burst through the sound barrier, but as I accelerate, the air rushing past my wings creates a sharp whistling sound that begins alerting the local humans, as well as the demon himself.

By this point he can sense my proximity, and he suddenly jumps back and forth, from left to right, searching for me in building panic, before realization descends upon him and he looks up.

He has two seconds at the very most to react.

Unleashing his wings, he moves to leap out of my way, but I already have him by his hair, and jerking his head to the side, I slice the blade through his throat in the same motion; dividing the demon instantly in two.

He erupts into the same putrefied embers as all his slain kind, while his claws remain locked into the flesh of my naked shoulder. I shake his still burning remains off me in disgust until he is little more than ash.

It's all over in a matter of seconds, and as I quickly scan the minds of the several surrounding humans, I exhale the air in my lungs in relief. I'm confident enough that none of them witnessed what had just transpired. Then extracting my wings back within my body, I turn in the direction of the demon's humans. As instructed, they're waiting for Isabella in the laneway for her to approach. Only, I enter first.

They know instantly what I am, and there's an immediate moment of confusion and panic as the five of them stumble against each other in an effort to escape. One brave simpleton, however, decides on a different course of action and starts chanting out some satanic incantation. It's mildly irritating, but nothing more. I only laugh, before without hesitation, I forcibly whip his head sideways with both hands, cleanly snapping his neck.

I slay three others in the same manner before allowing the fifth to go free. He's young and naïve and the beast exploited his troubled upbringing to recruit him into the damned. He knows very little of the death-wish he's got himself into. Plus, he has not yet sold his soul.

Still, he isn't the smartest of humans.

"Jesus fucking Christ," he utters out in complete shock only seconds after urinating over himself.

I wince immediately, almost buckling over as a tenth of the length of my wings tears through my back. I make the decision to release them fully and place the fear of God into this fool. Raising them high above me, I stretch them to their full height, then staring him down for several seconds with deliberate intimidation, I slowly approach him.

"Holy fuck!" he exclaims, his eyes comically wide as he scrambles away from me. "This shit is real?"

"What did you think?" I question him sharply, grabbing him by the scruff of his jacket and hauling him three feet off the ground.

He doesn't answer. He can't; the shock has rendered him mute.

"You see your friends over there?" I motion to their corpses with a quick jerk of my head. He nods hastily, his body tremoring uncontrollably. "Do you know where they've gone?"

He continues nodding his head, before as if realizing his error, he shakes it back and forth in the same twitching movements.

"Think of your worst nightmare and you're not even close," I warn him, keeping my eyes steeled to his.

He remains confused as to whether he should agree or comply before the color drains from his face and he passes out cold and goes limp in my grip.

Shaking my head to myself, I throw him into a pile of bagged rubbish before turning my back on him. At that exact moment Isabella walks past, glancing inside the laneway with a mildly cautious expression on her face. And I immediately realize I hadn't heard her approaching, because I cannot read her thoughts.

She's caught me completely off guard.

She stares at me for several seconds, her immensely deep, dark brown eyes fixing to mine; the shock in them the only clue to what her mind doesn't disclose to me. I only gaze back, helplessly, watching as her face slowly transforms from startled, to stunned, to horrified as she takes in the scene she's stumbled upon; of an angel with its grey wings fully extended and outstretched, standing amidst the bodies of four dead humans.

The paper cup she's holding slips from her fingers, the steaming liquid splashing over her sandaled feet before her shaking hand rises and clamps around the emulate that hangs from her neck.

"Dash..." she utters in barely a whisper, and in the next breath, she faints.


	7. Chapter 6

**The Fallen**

 **Chapter 6.**

For a single moment in time I am suspended. I can't take a breath, I can't speak; I can't think. I'm completely incapacitated by shock.

Was she about to speak my name?

She remains unmoving on the cold concrete less than ten feet from me, and seeing her so vulnerable is enough to snap the coherency back into me long enough to collect my thoughts and take action. I retract my wings, and after tearing a jacket from one of the heathens I'd just slain, I throw it over my naked torso. Then bending down, I gently lift her small, unconscious body into my arms. She's surprisingly light and warm, and for a moment I'm almost overrun by the significance of it. But I have to keep my head. I have four dead human bodies that I have to take care of before they're discovered.

I carry her hastily back to the general store, explaining to the clerk how I'd witnessed her faint. She's seemingly uninjured and fully clothed, so there's no suspicion in regards to me. The clerk's thoughts are consumed solely for the well-being of this small human girl; who I carefully lay on the floor behind the counter.

"Thank you very much, young man," the middle aged woman addresses me, kneeling down beside Isabella—who's beginning to come around—before placing a damp cloth on her forehead. "I'll see that she gets home. I know where she lives."

I nod, my gaze lingering on my human. My body of skin has become charged by the feel and touch of her in my arms, and I'm loathe to leave her. In fact, I'm struggling to sever my gaze from her in order to turn around and walk back out into the street.

Through the demon's eyes was one thing, but with my own is quite another.

She's so lovely there doesn't seem human words adequate enough to express it. In fact her beauty is so sublime she almost appears to be an angel herself encased in flesh. She has delicate, porcelain skin, and full red lips that are slightly parted, and in a moment of human impulse the desire to merge mine with them almost overcomes me. And the clerk has noticed.

She appraises me for a breath or two, looking at me properly for the first time. Her eyes widen, and she appears almost startled before her back straightens. "I can take care of her from here. What is your name, lad?"

Though, what she really wonders is how old I am.

"E-Edward," I stumble over my human name, pulling my gaze from hers back to the softly moaning form of Isabella. "Edward Masen." I use the surname from my last life; something I often do after I _go off the grid_.

"Do you know Bella"— _Bella?—"_ Edward?" she asks politely; though, her thoughts assure me that she's curious more than anything else. She wonders about my eyes and whether I wear contact lenses.

"Erm—no. I mean, I often see her walking around the village," I stammer out my reply, feeling suddenly awkward and unsure of myself before my gaze draws to the entrance; reminding me that I have business that's in urgent need of tending. And before I can talk myself out of it, I leave the store, pushing the entrance doors abruptly out of my way as I do until I'm standing in the middle of the street gulping the air back down my restricted lungs.

I'm shaking, literally trembling all over, but I am at a loss to stop it. I am being overcome with a multitude of emotions; emotions I didn't know existed as a human. I feel as though my chest might literally burst open, and this is aside from the urge to simply drop down to my knees and start sobbing. For too long a moment it overtakes me, until I'm forced to pull myself together and redirect my focus. Two teenage boys are approaching from the opposite end of the street, chatting casually with each other. They're about to pass the laneway where the bodies of the four hell-bound souls still lie.

 _Turn around and go back the way you came_ , I place the thought in both their minds, then watch as they both blindly obey; turning their backs on me and disappearing around the corner as if there was nothing altogether odd about it.

By the time I return to the lane the fifth budding Satanist, that I'd let live, is gone. I quickly scan through the minds of the humans nearby, concluding that he hadn't run screaming to the locals with what he'd witnessed, before I once more focus my attention inside the corner store. And again there's only one mental voice I can hear.

Through the clerk's mind I see Isabella has regained consciousness. She's sipping a glass of water on a chair the woman provided for her, and from her expression alone I can only guess her thoughts. She appears shaken and disturbed, but there is also something excited about her eyes. She's explaining to the clerk how she was overcome by a moment of dizziness, and I find myself surprised by her English accent. Though, I don't know why, considering she's lived her entire life in this village.

"Do you think you might be... _pregnant_ , dear?" the clerk puts to her, albeit tactfully, and I automatically tense, feeling my muscles lock and become rigid. But before I can become too maladjusted over it, Isabella lightly laughs.

"Not without a miracle," is her reply, something which makes an involuntary smile break across my face. "I think I'm okay to walk back home now," she suddenly asserts, and it's cue for me to vacate the area.

Taking a momentous breath, I brave the inevitable torture of releasing my wings for the third time in an hour, heave the four bodies off the ground, two over each shoulder, and propel myself into the sky. I dump the corpses well into the center of the Celtic Sea, and by the time I return to the little English town that harbors my human girl, it's dark.

Landing on the roof of the convent, I immediately filter through the thoughts of those inside. Isabella's fine, and the sisters are not too concerned about her. Her story is convincing, and they're taking her at her word that nothing nefarious had taken place. A GP was called in, and the theory is a momentary drop in blood pressure due to the heat or possible dehydration.

In the convent she's safe, so I take the opportunity to search the perimeter of the city for any demons. There is none that I can detect; Ezekeel had kept them out while he coveted Isabella, so the news that he's dead hasn't yet reached any in neighboring boroughs. It won't be long before it does, and I'm certain one of the four remaining demons will take up the mantle. I cannot rest until I hunt each and every one of the beasts down, but what's paramount at this point is Isabella. I have to meet her, I have to know her, but she's seen me; she's seen me in the embodiment of my half-breed glory.

There is no coming back from that.

I can only hope that she convinces herself that she imagined it all, and something the clerk had been musing upon gives me an idea. My eyes will be immediately recognizable, but if I disguise them...

The next morning I go in search of an optometrist and have a pair of brown cosmetic contacts fitted. As a rule I don't tend to need money; I can easily sway the humans to give me what I need. Unless it's something expensive, like a car, for example. I can't reconcile them being fired, or worse thrown in jail, for my material needs, so at certain times I do need some form of currency.

When I was in Australia I'd applied for a credit card with a limit of one hundred thousand. I'd submitted an online application with a multitude of forged documents, and when faced with the correlating bank's loans manager, I simply coerced him into approving it. Under the name Edward Masen, of course, since Edward Cullen was about to go missing. I have no reservations about stealing from banks since most of them are owned and run by the lost souls of the fallen. They're easy pickings; their greed quickly becomes their downfall.

In the past, by the time my wings came in, I withdrew from the world of humans and became a recluse, and therefore, had very little need for material assets. But right now, with only a frayed pair of jeans and an equally worn pair of shoes—and one stolen army green jacket—in my possession, I need to take charge and make an effort to blend back in with the humans.

By early afternoon, I've purchased several new outfits, had my hair cut, and applied for a library card. Then with a newly borrowed book under my arm, I head to the park. I arrive an hour earlier than Isabella's usual routine visit, sitting on the bench she occupies. I'm too on edge, I need to calm myself, and there's nothing calmer than the minds of children. They're innocence and tendency to be completely arbitrary simultaneously makes them entertaining. I sit, my eyes focused to the open book in my hand, and listen as a half dozen of them run full speed around the playground equipment. Their thoughts are racing with everything from upcoming birthdays, candy, toys, and Marvel superheroes, to their fears over what kind of vegetables their parents might cook them tonight for dinner. I'm so unexpectedly immersed by it that when Isabella suddenly sits beside me she takes me by so much surprise I almost lurch off the bench.

I'm accustomed to locating people by their minds, and this is twice she's happened upon me unprepared.

"Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to startle you," she volunteers politely, before opening her book and setting it in her lap.

She hasn't really looked at me, I observe, and I wonder if she's shy.

"It was my fault. I was daydreaming," I mumble, willing my heart to still before braving a glance at what she's reading.

Great Expectations.

I stare down at it for the longest moment, attempting to pull up the courage to talk to her, only I realize I have no idea how to initiate conversation. I've never had much interest in talking to humans, more than what was absolutely necessary, at least. In fact, I spent the majority of my four millennia of lives avoiding them, avoiding frivolous human attachments, and am right this moment finding myself quite out of my depth.

Becoming aware of my inappropriate level of staring, she pauses from her book and turns her gaze directly on me. Something immediately flickers in her eyes before she visibly tenses and pulls up short.

My heart seizes; she's recognized me.

"I—do... I know you?" she eventually puts the stammering question before me, while her face subtly flushes.

I open my mouth to reply, but am mortified for one horrible moment when I discover that I'm at a loss for words. "No," I hastily add as soon as my brain function turns lucid again, before offering up a consolation. "No, I mean, I-I just moved here."

"Oh," is all she replies with as her eyes remain fixed to my face. She's quite evidently evaluating every inch of it, and it's suddenly maddening to me that I do not know what kind of conclusion she's coming to. Does she recognize me? Does she know what I am? Does she find me physically attractive? "You're American," she states almost as a second-thought, and for a moment I'm confused.

"I'm sorry?—Oh, yeah. I am."

She smiles and my heart pauses, before she extends her hand to me. "I'm Bella."

I take it briefly, cautiously, making every effort to prevent mine from trembling. "Pleased to meet you, Bella"—my voice automatically softens around her name—"I'm Edward."

It seems unfathomable to touch her, and yet I'm disappointed to find there is no passing energy between us. No magnetism; nothing that would explain the sentimental clichés humans cling to. Clichés I have clung to all these centuries.

I expected fireworks, after all. Not... normalcy.

This is the girl who caused my expulsion from Heaven, and yet her hand is no more or less warm and fragile than the average human's that I've ever intentionally, or unintentionally, touched. As a hybrid, I'm still unable to read her mind, so perhaps it isn't just her psyche that's closed to me, now.

I attempt to recall how it felt to touch her when I was her guardian, but I'm not sure they're memories I can trust, or make comparisons with, anymore. Like a game of Chinese Whispers played out over the ages my perception of them has become skewered. I'm no longer certain of what's real or what's an illusion.

"Edward..." she echoes softly after a long pause—as if she were contemplating it—snapping me out of my preoccupation. Looking up I meet her gaze; she's again scrutinizing me. "Mrs. Belmont said a tall lad named Edward carried me into her shop, but his eyes were... a different color..."

I hesitate, groaning internally to myself. I had not anticipated the clerk giving her a description of me, but I should have. My eyes are too distinct; they're usually what people notice first and remember last about me. Isabella had gazed directly into them at the exit of the lane long enough that I knew if she saw me again, saw my eyes, she'd identify me immediately in the half-breed angel she'd encountered.

"I carried you to the store," I admit as casually as I can manage, "and this is my eye color." I detest lying to her, but I'm still not certain that exposing myself immediately to her is the right course of action. I don't want her to faint again. Or draw attention to us.

She appears to ponder it before a brief smile warms her expression. "Well, thank you, Edward." Though, despite her smile, a measure of uncertainty lingers on her face. She's unconvinced.

"My pleasure," I murmur, severing her gaze; her eyes are deep and unfathomable, and they hold very few clues to her mind.

She returns to her book, reading without pause for several minutes, when this time it's me who interrupts her concentration. "I hope you're feeling better." My voice is too soft; too full of uncertainty.

"Yeah, I'm fine," she answers simply, even as a slight frown creases her brow in contradiction.

"Too much sun?" I venture as my pulse begins to quicken in anticipation of her answer.

She smirks, shaking her head with the slightest of movement. "Something like that."

This awkward small talk is tormenting me. In fact, talking to her in general appears a hopeless situation, and so I stop bothering her and return to my tortured thoughts. She appears receptive to me, but the fact that I am completely blind to her is making me question everything, even my own senses.

"Are you staying here permanently or just visiting?" she suddenly breaches the momentary quiet—surprising me once again, and just when I convinced myself I was making her uncomfortable.

I turn to her, opening my mouth to answer, but the manner in which she's regarding me causes me to pause. She's definitely examining me.

She only raises her brow, an evident reminder of her question, and I'm beginning to feel like a simpleton.

"I'm staying—for now," I answer, offering her an awkward smile.

She nods, and once more turns her attention to her book. Her cheeks are slightly tinged, and as she reads she keeps ensnaring her bottom lip between her teeth before releasing it, over and over. It's the only hint to what her silent mind is pondering, and it's exasperating.

I want to ask her what she's thinking, but I'm not sure how unbalanced that question would make me appear. A lot, I'm guessing, and I don't want to scare her. I have always been regarded as odd throughout every life I've lived. "A freak" to use their terminology, and up until this very moment it's never bothered me. But the thought of Isabella thinking I'm an oddity suddenly makes me anxious.

There is no getting around it, though. I'm genuinely at a loss as to how to engage with her, and I mentally berate myself once more for not paying attention to how humans interact with one another. I am only really familiar with how my parents behaved around each other. My father would often grab his wife's hand and plant his lips to it, or at times he'd tuck a lock of her hair behind her shoulder; his eyes expressing what he did not physically speak.

I understand humans on more of a molecular level than an emotional one, but I'm informed enough to know my parents affections aren't exactly typical for how people Isabella's age engage with each other today.

"What are you reading?" she suddenly asks, once more breaking me from my stranglehold of frustration.

"Uh..." I hastily turn the book over, revealing its cover. It's a world war two non-fiction. It seemed like a topic an ordinary twenty-one year old would be interested in, because if I'd gone with what I know I would have chosen something in regards to 12th century Theologians.

"Are you interested in World War Two?" she enquires.

I half nod, half shrug in lukewarm admittance. I was born the year it ended in my last life; where I was known as Paul Masen, and in my life prior to that I'd died just after the Normandy invasions. When I was Youssef Abboud, an Egyptian.

Something I almost inadvertently confess to her.

"You were about to say?" she persuades me after I freeze mid-syllable.

"Uh, my great uncle was a war correspondent... in Europe, during... it," I blatantly lie, while knowing I don't sound even remotely convincing.

She smiles again, her eyebrow arching skeptically. She's seeing straight through me.

Turning away from her, I drop my forehead into my palm, massaging my brow heavily with my fingertips and becoming increasingly discouraged with myself.

From beside me, Isabella softly scoffs out her breath as if she were finding secret amusement in me, and when I turn back to face her, fully this time, her smile inches broader.

"I'm beginning to think I make you nervous, Edward," she acknowledges candidly, and I like the way she pronounces my human name.

"You do," I concede, releasing my breath in resignation.

"I _do_?" She quirks her brow dubiously.

"All English people do, I mean," I elaborate hastily. "It's the strange names you have for certain things, and your sense of humor..."

She chuckles softly this time. "Would you believe my parents were American?"

I pause, becoming distracted as I consider it. The idea hadn't even occurred to me.

Severing her attention from me, Isabella glances over her shoulder, and when she turns back, her expression is clouding in evident irritation.

"Jesus Christ, can they give me five bloody minutes to myself," she mutters, half beneath her breath, and just as I am thrown physically forward by the sacrilege behind it.


	8. Chapter 7

**The Fallen  
Chapter 7.**

As my wings begin their agonizing exit through my flesh, the cotton of my shirt strains as it's jerked away from my back. I can feel each stitch pop as the material begins to give.

On impulse alone, I jump from the bench, facing Isabella fully to shield my fledgling wings while I will them to retract. I fail, but it's almost impossible to withdraw them while they're not fully extended.

She leaps off the bench alongside me, her expression morphing with alarm as she reaches out to me. Her mouth falls open to react, and fully anticipating what she's about to proclaim, I shake my head, silently, _desperately_ , pleading with her.

"Oh my god—are you okay?!" she exclaims regardless, just as her words once more impact with me. The force of them thrusts me several steps forward, and I all but collide with her in attempt to keep myself on my feet.

My wings have torn through my shirt and have advanced at least three feet from my back. I can feel the breeze sweep across the wing-tips, fully knowing I'm about to be unveiled.

Isabella grabs me around my waist attempting to keep me upright when she suddenly draws her breath violently. "Oh my..." she attempts to articulate her shock once more, when I clamp my hands over my ears.

" _Please_... _stop_ ," I strangle out, fighting to breathe past the unrelenting pain of a third of the length of my wings slicing through my flesh like razors. It won't stop until they're fully ejected, but it's not something I can allow to happen in a park full of children and they're ever vigilant parents.

She nods, her eyes wide and plagued with shock.

" _Help_ _me_..." I plead with her, my eyes darting in emphasis to the gathering of adults and their toddlers who have not yet noticed us. The nuns, however, who have stopped their pursuit of Isabella about fifty feet from us, I cannot say the same for.

She nods again, clearly comprehending my meaning as she quickly composes herself. Cautiously, I remove my hands from my ears, when she grabs my right one and pulls me after her. Keeping the two of us within the shadows created by the border of trees and shrubbery that aligns one side of the park, she drags me through to the back entrance, past a group of kids on a skate ramp, who pay us no attention, until we reach a back street.

On one side is a collection of townhouses, and on the other St Francis' Catholic school that's set adjacent to the convent. This is where Isabella leads me, through the parking lot of the school where the gates remain open. We weave between several buildings until we reach a small, single-person entranceway that leads to the rear entrance of the convent. This takes us to a courtyard off the east-facing, windowless wall of the main building with a single rear door and enclosed by ten feet tall brick walls.

"No one ever comes out here when's school's over. Except me," she hastily explains, just as I drop to my hands and knees on the semi-damp grass of the early afternoon.

With my wings partially released my scapula bones are pushed forward, forcing my ribs and spine against my lungs. I can barely breathe, and am so paralyzed by the torture of it, I barely have the strength to fully surrender to them. Grabbing fistfuls of turf in both my fists, while attempting to suppress the agony I'm temporarily locked in, I force my wings free. The pain instantly halts and my relief is so immense, I collapse face first into the damp earth.

My wings, now fully unfurled and extended, almost subconsciously move back and forth, facilitating my circulation so I can catch my breath and calm myself. I can feel the coolness of the early afternoon breeze against them, and the flurrying of my feathers in the light wind is the only audible sound in the near vicinity. I have no idea if Isabella remains close by, and the fact that I cannot read her mind makes the silence between us deafening. Then slowly, over my own abating heartbeat, I begin to hear hers. It's racing, and her breath is short.

Inevitably, I raise my head, braving her response, only for my eyes to meet the completely accepting astuteness of hers. I expected her to be shocked, perhaps to faint again, but she doesn't even appear ruffled.

"I knew it," she whispers—to me or to herself I can't be sure. Her eyes break from mine, falling to the ground beneath her feet, appearing suddenly unfocused, before she cements it louder this time, "I _knew_ it!"

Slowly, precariously, I pull myself to my feet. I don't retract my wings; I leave them fully extended above us both. They're quivering, but it's not something I can control; no more than a human can stop their hands from shaking when they're anxious.

If exposing myself to Isobel was a part of the second clause of my existence, I was never able to ascertain, but I'm out now; salvation be damned.

"Bella..." I utter in complete uncertainty, my voice still aggrieved by the pain by which my wings were forced from me.

"Yes?" she whispers before waiting for me to continue. It's becoming evident she's retained no memories of her previous lives. No conscious memories, at least. Though, considering she's human, I'm unsure why this surprises me. Nevertheless, I'm truly at a loss as to how to explain the four thousand years of human history behind the both of us in a way that she'll be able to comprehend, and without scaring her.

She continues to stare at me, her gaze rising to my wings before they again settle on my eyes. Hers are wide and awestruck, but with a growing measure of caution. "It _was_ you yesterday, wasn't it?" she asks. Though, it's more of a statement; an accusation.

I nod only once, severing my gaze from hers to collect myself in the silence that exists between our minds.

"Edward...?" she asks after a moment, and when I again meet her enquiring eyes, her expression has turned cynical. "Is your name even _Edward_?"

"Yes," I answer, a slight smirk growing across my face before I can stop it.

" _Edward?_ " she questions, her tone growing in doubt and skepticism. "An angel named _Edward_."—And mocking.

"My... _human_ name is Edward," I'm forced to explain.

"Your human name..." she echoes in a mumble to herself. "What's your _angel_ name?" she asks, tilting her head to one side as if she's momentarily lost in her thoughts.

"Are you sure you don't know it?" I canvass her expression, but it's becoming increasingly obvious that it's almost as difficult to read as her mind.

She shakes her head in answer as her eyes pull back to my wings while her brow knots.

"You almost spoke it yesterday," I remind her tactfully, and this seems to surprise her.

Her entire expression smooths out for a moment, before it settles back to the cloak of troubled distraction that she appears to be wrestling with.

"Did you kill those lads?" she asks several moments later, her cautious eyes blatantly avoiding my own as they fixate on the movement of my wings in the breeze.

"Yes," I answer truthfully. "Well, four of them, at least."

"Why?" she demands, her gaze this time fastening to mine in a way that almost intimidates me.

"Because they were going to kill _you_ ," I disclose in a quiet voice, just as her breath audibly catches.

"Why would they do that?" she exclaims, her tone flooding with alarm.

"Because..." I begin with a sigh before abandoning it. I can hear the minds of several approaching humans. Word has quickly spread among the sisters regarding the recent _event_ in the park. I blink, taking a slow, inevitable breath, and when it becomes obvious that the several excited minds are headed in our direction, I withdraw my wings in a quick, fluid motion.

By doing so, I startle Isabella. She takes a hasty, clumsy step backward and almost loses her footing. I spring forward to steady her. Her breath draws in sharply, and I'm unable to detect the emotion behind it. Her eyes remain wide, incomprehensible, but they're as equally circumspect.

The knob of the rear entrance door rattles, preparing to open.

"I should go," I blurt out apologetically to her.

She opens her mouth to respond, appearing suddenly panicked, but time has run out. Leaping up and over the side wall with ease, I quickly vanish from view.

In the dwindling daylight I take to the shadows, hastening my step as I scan through the minds of every human and possible demon within the confines of the city as a means to put myself at ease. I'm fretful and overrun with so much uncertainty and conjecture that I cannot quiet my mind and concentrate.

Isabella was not how I expected her to be, but I'm no longer certain of what I expected. And while the overwhelming desire to protect and avenge her is still as prevalent, I can't help but feel conflicted. Michael must have been right; I'm more human now than I've ever been a member of the Angelic Order, because I'll be damned if, in all my human naivety, I didn't expect her to fall straight into my arms. It's ridiculous and sentimental, but I expected her to recognize me, to remember me. Remember me in the same way I had suffered for four millennia searching for her.

There is one thing I can't deny, however, and that's that she took the revelation of what I am with entirely too much calm.

After five rotations of the city, and when I'm positive no danger lurks close by, I return to the convent. I'm tempted to return to the dilapidated terrace house I've been occupying the last several days to put on a new shirt, but I'm no longer obligated by any charade. I doubt Isabella will be under any misapprehension as to the reasons I'm bare-chested.

There's somewhat of an uproar happening inside the stone building. The sisters have been interrogating Isabella all afternoon and into the evening. They believe me to be fallen and repeatedly question her on how I was able to get so close to her while she wore her amulet, as well as the nature of my wings and my physical description.

They're fully aware of the fallen angels—the ones who stalk Isabella especially—but me, neither fallen nor angel? I am an anomaly, and they've never heard of a single precedent throughout history or in scripture.

"They were grey—how many times do I have to repeat myself?" she hollers, the exasperation in her voice evident before it turns sarcastic. "His wings came out when I _committed_ _blasphemy."_

Doors are slammed, by Isabella I can only presume, while animated minds are torn. The two sisters who'd followed her earlier are convinced I am no threat, but they too are conflicted over what or who I am, and if I am wholly on "their side".

One thing they all agree on is that they _must consult Michael_.

Michael...? I ponder it.

Surely, they don't mean my brother Michael? The archangel? The archangel they've made a saint?

I scoff bitterly to myself at the very notion. Of course, Michael can intervene at will and with impunity, but I'm sentenced to an eternity of wretched human evolution.

I agilely navigate my way over the clay tiles of the sharply pitched roof until I reach a dormer window that I'm confident leads to Isabella's room. Glancing discreetly inside, I barely make out her silhouette through the lace curtains as she paces back and forth across the room. She's throwing objects around that land soundlessly. Pillows, I quickly conclude, smiling to myself before I quietly rap on the window pane.

She rushes over, throws the window up and stares out into the darkened street; her head whipping back and forth in an anxious manner. I'm sitting directly above her, positioned on the slanted roof of her window.

"Bella," I speak quietly, but she jumps, shrieking on impulse regardless, and for a moment she disappears.

Once she reappears she glances apprehensively up at me, and when she catches sight of me her expression softens, her breath releasing into what I'd like to believe is relief.

"Edward," she says, and that same relief is reinforced by the timbre of her voice.

"May I come in?"

She quickly nods before moving back to allow me to enter.

Keeping my grip on the shallow eave on the roof of the window, I glide my body through the moderate rectangle opening before turning to close it behind me. She'd moved away, standing almost flush against the opposite wall, her palms flat against the surface. I don't move and she continues to regard me with that same curious disquiet, without a word spoken between us. Until that is, when her eyes dip to my lower torso where they promptly widen.

"You have no belly button!" she gasps, her hand rising to her mouth where she appears to contemplate it more.

I break into a small, amused smile. "No, I heal quickly and without scarring."

"So, you weren't born?" she puts the question to me while her eyes remain glued to my torso. They slowly trace a path from my obvious lack of umbilicus up to my chest before venturing _further_ down to the path of dark hair that disappears beneath the waistband of my pants. For an extremely uncomfortable second or two, her gaze settles to where my unproductive manhood is situated. It's only fleeting, but her curiosity immediately makes me self-conscious. My jeans are fractionally too big, and they hang a little too low on my hips. I'm not wearing underwear. I rarely do; I refuse to confine the one part of my anatomy that I am forbidden to use.

"I was born, but I don't scar," I reiterate, hastily clearing the awkwardness from my throat. "The navel _you have_ is still a scar."

She nods, though she remains distracted. Her eyes are everywhere but on mine, and I take the moment to inspect her room.

There are depictions of Michael everywhere. Art work and posters align the walls, while statues and figurines litter the room, along with other portrayals of the Cherubim and Seraphim. She likes angels—Michael in particular, and I know it's my brother because only he wields the Sword of Light.

"You're fond of Michael, are you?" I murmur, while I struggle to prevent myself from tensing.

She looks up, her forehead quirking. "I-I'm sorry?" she stammers. "Who?"

" _Archangel_ Michael," I clarify, motioning to his image throughout her room, and cringing to myself upon the realization that I sound like a jealous, petulant child.

Her eyes widen in realization and she almost smiles. "Oh. I didn't know they were of Michael. I-I just like angels in general."

I relax a fraction, ashamed of myself and the very human emotion that had overtaken my senses for one moment. I haven't behaved like this for four thousand years.

"How-how do you know it's Michael?" she puts to me in a timid voice, breaking me from my distraction.

"Do you see how he's carrying a sword and defeating a serpent in almost all depictions of him?" I point out, and when she nods, I smile. "That's usually the giveaway."

"Oh," she repeats simply. "Do you know Michael?"

"Yes."

"You don't like him," she asserts and she appears suddenly amused.

"I tolerate him. I have no other choice," I reply stiffly, before changing course from my self-important brother. "Tell me about this infatuation with angels of yours."

She immediately blushes. "I've always loved them. I dream about them every night. At least, I dream about _one_ angel every night. I have for as long as I can remember," she admits, her voice wavering as if it's hallowed to her.

Her confession has stumped me, and more than I can grasp. Perhaps she has memories, after all. Memories of me.

"What does he look like, this angel you dream of?" I ask in an utterance that doesn't quite sound rational.

She opens her mouth to reply, before she pauses and the barest hint of a smile twitches at her lips. "What makes you think it's a 'he'?" she queries, her brow arching.

"Because there are no female angels in your room," I answer, my smile pulling in echo to hers.

She chuckles lightly, conceding. "He has black hair, and the most otherworldly gold eyes you could ever imagine. He..." she falters, her forehead bridging, "he looks a lot like you, but at the same time, he-he doesn't..."

She breaks my gaze again and awkwardly sets them at her feet, while I feel as if I have turned to stone. All angels, whether watchers, guardians or archangels, have gold eyes; it is not a widely known fact. I however, in spiritual form and in the flesh, had black hair.

"Isabella?" I prompt her gently, using her full name in an attempt to break her disconcertion. She looks up slowly, her flushed complexion becoming more conspicuous. "This angel of yours. He was _me_."


	9. Chapter 8

**The Fallen**

 **Chapter 8**

Bella only stares at me, seemingly lost for words. She shakes her head, as if to repudiate me, but stops herself; clearly in two minds.

"How?" she eventually articulates.

"I was your guardian. You know my name, Bella. I know you do," I appeal to her.

She shakes her head again, but her eyes are an ocean of contradictions. "I don't..."

"You _do_. Tell me," I press her, my voice becoming firm.

She opens her mouth to respond several times, but appearing to second guess herself, she closes it. "It's stupid," she concludes in a mumble, dropping her head.

I cross the room to stand within a couple of feet of her before reaching out to slip my fingers beneath her chin, guiding her gaze back to me.

"It isn't," I assure her.

She stares up at me, deep into my eyes while appearing perplexed by them. "Your eyes are so... _flat_ ," she divulges her confusion, and I smile.

Sighing shortly, I bow my head and remove the small lenses from my eyes. Then, apprehensively, I raise my head and meet her gaze, allowing her to finally see the true nature of my eyes.

She immediately gasps, audibly; sharply.

"Oh my g—" she bursts, seemingly without conscious thought, before I hastily interject by clamping my palm over her mouth.

"Please _try_ not to do that," I caution her, and when she nods in hasty compliance, I remove my hand. "What is my name, Bella?" I coax her, my tone softening this time.

" _D-Dashiel_ ," she whispers as the most unfathomable expression encompasses her face and before she quite literally crumbles before me.

I catch her, cradling her against my naked chest. She's weeping openly, taking one almost-silent breathless sob after another as her entire body quakes against me. She is so small; I am close to a foot taller that I dwarf her. But the feel of her in my arms, nestled against my flesh, is beyond words, and for one horrifying moment, I almost succumb to the most primal of all human desires. Like I once did.

"Your skin is so _hot_." Her voice is muffled against my chest and behind her sobs, before I'm almost certain she plants her lips against my skin.

On impulse, I tighten my arms around her, drop my face to the top of her head, and inhale her sweet aroma deep into my lungs. She continues to cling to me, seemingly without unease, as my actions begin to border the inappropriate.

She has the softest, most silken skin I have ever beheld. I have spent the majority of my human existence avoiding all contact with females, and I am finding myself quite deeply affected.

A battle is being waged within me, between my rational mind and the physical magnetism of my very real human body. But before I can contemplate the notion of surrendering to the latter, Bella pulls herself back and stares up into my eyes, beseechingly.

Her eyes. They're so vastly intense they almost mirror mine...

"You have to explain everything to me, Dashiel," she pleads, releasing her arms from around me to clumsily wipe her tear-streaked face.

I nod before pausing to take a heavy breath. "I will, Bella. I promise, but first you must promise _me_ something."

Her eyes only widen in silent answer, and she nods.

"You must not speak my name aloud again. It's dangerous," I explain to her seriously, stressing the importance behind it.

"Okay," she complies without question. "But why?"

"Because when spoken it acts as a beacon to my kind, and that includes those of us who have fallen."

She opens her mouth but remains silent, her head nodding again as if she's attempting to understand. "Edward?"

"Yes?"

"Are you one of the fallen?" she asks, appearing to almost shrink away from me.

I smile, scoffing my breath softly past it. "No."

"W-why?" she stammers, and I'm not certain of the context behind her question.

"Why... am I not fallen?" I enquire.

She half laughs and quickly shakes her head before seeming to pull herself together. "No, I mean, why are you here?"

"I've been looking for you for four thousand years," I admit, knowing it will create more questions than it does answers. Her brow immediately draws, and taking another heavy breath, I prepare myself for a moment. "Come and sit down," I urge her, motioning toward her bed that's situated along the wall on the right-side of the room from the window.

Nodding, she allows me to steer her; she's beginning to appear disoriented. She sits down on the quilted bed covering, and I place myself beside her.

I brace myself for several seconds, preparing myself to relay the four thousand years of history between us, when she breaks me from my preoccupation.

"I've spoken your name twice, Edward. What's going to happen?—will _they_ come?" she asks, her voice dropping gravely.

"They would have in the past, yes, but not anymore," I reassure her, and just as she opens her mouth to further question, I pull the hilt of Michael's sword from inside the waist of my jeans where I keep it. Then squeezing the grip, the blue flame of the metal blade bursts free, causing Bella to jump back in immediate fright.

"What is that? A lightsaber?" she blurts incredulously, and she's serious—as far as I can ascertain, at least.

I gauge her for a moment, my brow knotting. She's lived in a convent her entire life, has surrounded herself with angels of all kinds, and yet her first assumption is that I'm in possession of a fictional object from the imaginings of humans. "No, it's not a lightsaber."

Her eyes narrow, and she huffs only partially beneath her breath. She's suddenly irritated and I'm not certain why. "Well, what is it?" she asks abruptly. " _Michael's sword_?" She's being sarcastic.

"Yes. One of them, at least," I answer straight-faced before retracting the sword and hooking it back inside my pants. "Michael's swords are the only weapons that can permanently remove them from their human forms."

"I-I don't understand. Permanently remove who?" She falters, her emotion reversing, and I get the impression her irritation was a cover for her confusion.

"Fallen angels—or demons, I should say. They have taken human form on Earth." I hesitate for a moment, steeling my breath before I continue, "They've found a loophole, Bella. To become stronger and to come back if an angel kills them. Though, if they die by Michael's sword they can never come back."

She shakes her head, her expression blank; silently relaying her bewilderment.

"They've been killing you," I admit seriously, just as she visibly tenses. "In the womb or shortly after birth. Your blood strengthens them."

"But why?" her voice is barely audible and steeped in horror.

"Because you are a seer, and therefore, anointed by God," I answer, carefully taking her twitching hand in mine and squeezing.

" _Seer_?" she echoes in confusion and disbelief. "But I'm not..."

"You _are_ ," I stress. "Those dreams you have. They're from your _first_ life. I was your guardian. In spirit and in the flesh I watched over you. Bella... you could seeme when I was without a human form. When I was of light."

It's evident that she's struggling to grasp what I'm telling her, and as she stares at me, her brown eyes wide and unfathomable, they once more fill with tears.

"I loved you during my first life. Didn't I?" she puts to me in a quiet desperation that tugs at my heart.

Tentatively, I cup my palm to her cheek as the first of her tears spills over my thumb. "You did, and I loved you," I whisper. "But it's what got me into trouble."

"What do you mean?" she asks, placing her own hand over mine that I'd kept grazing against the side of her face.

"I interfered in the course of your life. We were not created for humans, and it's forbidden for us to be... _together_ ," I emphasize the seriousness of it.

"Together?" she mirrors. "As in... _having sex_?"

My breath gushes from me, and I nod. "Yes."

"Did...?" she breaches hesitantly, when I interject, shaking my head emphatically.

"No."

"What would happen if... we did?" she instigates as her cheeks immediately flush deeper.

I can feel the heat of her accumulating blood beneath my palm. I remove it, taking her hand with me. "If I impregnated you we'd create a hybrid, but it'd be monstrous. It would kill you. You would not survive its birth."

" _The Nephilim_ ," she whispers, her tone straining behind the shock of her revelation. "One of the sisters taught me the story of them from the Book of Enoch, but I... I never believed it."

I smile. "Most people don't nowadays."

She gazes at me for several long moments before she asks, "If we didn't... then why did you get into trouble?"

I clear my throat before admitting in quiet shame. "I became a rogue angel. I killed any and all males who took an interest in you. Many were innocent."

"You were tall, even then," she whispers, smiling gently to herself and completely dismissing my last statement.

I only regard her for a moment perplexed. She reacted to the fact that I had murdered scores of men because of her as if it was inconsequential. I can only conclude that she's still unable to completely comprehend any of this.

"I'm governed now by human genetics," I explain, deciding to let the former matter go for the time being, before breaking into a small grin. "I've been five feet tall more than once."

Her smile broadens with mine, and for a brief period it turns tender. "So, that's your punishment? To live as an angel in human form?"

I nod, knowing I cannot tell her the entire clause of my finding her. "In a sense. Except I remember every life I've lived."

"And... have I reincarnated as well?" she inquires.

"Yes."

Her brows draw together in distraction. "But I don't remember..."

I squeeze her hand once more, looking down at it for a second; it's small and delicate. "I'm unsure how much of your lives you lived before you were killed, Bella, but I can only assume that the limits of your humanness would have prevented you from remembering them, regardless," I explain tactfully; though, I feel as if every word out of my mouth is coming across as patronizing.

She frowns, biting down on her lower lip as her eyes reconnect with mine. "But... in my dreams..." she points out, and it's evident she's hurt, but what's frustrating is I'm unsure why.

It's maddening that I'm unable to engage with her on a level that will put her at ease. I'm simply not accustomed to talking to girls my _age_ —or people in general, for that matter. I have never been able to relate to humans, so centuries ago, I reconciled myself to the fact that it was something I had to live without. I found girls in their late teens and early twenties to be pretentious and shallow at the best of times, anyway. All they ever saw in me was a pretty face, and that's as deep as their substance ever went.

"Many believe dreams are subconscious memories from past lives," I disclose, remaining cognizant of her feelings.

She appears to ponder it, but remains, by every definition, troubled. "So, now that you've found me...?

"Now that I've found you, I'll return to being your guardian," I openly lie to her. It makes me internally wince, but how am I supposed to explain to her that I have to sacrifice myself for her in order to regain entrance back into Heaven? Especially when I have no knowledge of how or when it's supposed to transpire.

She smiles again, and this time her entire face warms with it. "How old are you, Da-Edward?" she stammers, and I'm grateful she's able to correct herself in time. While Michael's sword offers me protection from the beasts, I am not sure how long I'll be in possession of it. I need her to be conscious of how dangerous my name can be for us both.

"My first human life was just after the flood, but time is measured differently in Heaven. I guess in human equivalence I'd be around ten thousand, perhaps twelve."

She appraises it before her brow quirks. "Flood...? As in Noah's Arc?"

"Yes, as in Noah's Arc." I smile, almost breaking into a chuckle at her skepticism. "You didn't believe that, either?"

She blushes and severs my gaze, and I realize I'm completely unprepared for how endearing she is.

"No," she confesses sheepishly.

For another short pause I regard her. I've been told I have the tendency to either stare too intensely into a person's eyes, or avoid them altogether. It's always been hard for me to find a comfortable median, and I'm relieved to discover she doesn't seem as affronted by my social ineptness as I feared. It's encouraging.

"How old are you, Bella?" I ask, curious. It's so hard to tell. Her eyes appear quite astute but her overall demeanor contradicts them.

"Nineteen," she replies, glancing up to, once again, catch my gaze.

 _Nineteen_...? I reflect upon it. She's little more than a child, and she's by no means what you'd call an _old soul_. After four thousand years of reincarnating, I expected her to be mature and cultivated beyond her years, but she is every bit the nineteen years she looks. That's when I understand. She has never lived beyond infanthood, and in all intents and purposes she is a brand new soul. I've had four thousand years of human experience, and she's had nineteen, and I want to laugh at how poetic it is.

It's exactly how it was in the very beginning


	10. Chapter 9

**The Fallen  
Chapter 9**

I rarely sleep. Two hours a week is sufficient, and even then it's not an absolute necessity. I've gone months without closing my eyes in voluntary unconsciousness. In fact, when I was an infant, my mother took me to various sleep doctors concerned that my lack of it would inhibit my development. Their conclusion? I was so intelligent I simply didn't need as much as the average child.

They were correct, in a sense, and they very rarely are when it comes to me.

Bella, on the other hand sleeps like the dead, for hours on end. After the first couple of weeks in her company she averaged seven hours a night. I have to keep reminding myself of her humanness and her lack of maturation. She's young, she's naïve, and she's impulsive—incredibly so. Her mood can so easily switch from quiet and contemplative to restless and temperamental in a matter of seconds that it occurs to me that she has not yet emotionally matured.

For one so young, however, she has a sound mind. She's perceptive, quick-witted and often inclined to sarcasm—not to mention her love for reading. Her intelligence quite evidently exceeds the parameters of average, and if I had to guess I'd place her IQ at 125. Another fact about her I quickly realized is that she has not retained the ability to see or communicate with angels. While I haven't been gifted with the sight to see them, either, I can still sense their presence from the same distance I do the beasts. There are several dozen in the convent at any given hour, and Bella is completely oblivious to them.

I'm yet to determine the reasoning behind this, but one thing is certain; she is every bit the teenager she appears, and it's becoming a crux.

For six months I remain with her in the convent. It has given her sanctuary for almost twenty years before I arrived, and the fact that Michael personally placed her here holds more weight than me being in possession of his sword. Not too many demons are willing to risk disembodiment for the sake of extra strength, and there are millions of anointed humans throughout the planet for them to target. Though, despite the safety it awards her, Bella has become increasingly frustrated with what she views as her "imprisonment". She's pleaded with me numerous times to take her away, and then becomes sullen and short-tempered when I explain the reasons why she's safer here with me. At times it feels like she is my child, and I'm not exactly comfortable with the act of constantly chastising her. In fact, our relationship has become more similar to that of a captor and captive than a human and her guardian.

It's making her rebellious against me while causing the steadily increasing feelings I harbor for her, both physical and emotional, to appear perverse, at the very least.

For the first several weeks with her, Bella regarded me with a wide-eyed fascination. She was constantly shy and self-conscious, until slowly the mechanics within her shifted. She started flirting with me—openly flirting with me. And while I'm technically a four thousand year old virgin, I am not inexperienced to the point that I'm oblivious to female beguilement.

Ironically, it's something I'm intimately familiar with, even without needing to read the minds of the over-eager females.

In the beginning it was subtle. She touched me often, my hands, my face, wrapping her arms around my shoulders, or running her fingers through my hair. Then she began asking all manner of inappropriate questions; like whether I am _anatomically correct._

"I'm born a human, Bella—what kind of question is that?" I answered, agitated by the very implied innuendo behind her curiosity.

"Mother Superior always told me angels are genderless," she explained her reasoning, while unable to conceal her smirk.

I took a small measured breath before replying. "As light their energies are either male or female, but when they take human form they become _physically_ male or female. They're not genderless." This is when I realize she was playing mind games with me. Her curiosity was feigned in order to breach the subject. "Bella, please stop."

" _What_?" she puts to me, her eyes wide with completely fabricated innocence.

"We're not discussing this anymore." I'm firm, but it doesn't deter her. In fact, on several occasions she was able to outsmart me and trick me into giving her more information that I began to suspect she might be a lot more intelligent than I first thought. I quickly learn I have to tread carefully with this canny human and not let my guard down.

And still she continued to get more physical with me until she started kissing me. It was my cheeks in the beginning, until it was my lips. Only briefly, but enough that the implications behind it were evident. Then she started insisting I sleep in her bed with her. For two nights I attempted to oblige her by sitting beside her while she slept, but she was able to entice me beneath the covers, and I instantly became aware of how detrimental it was for us both. Lying partially beneath her, covered in her scent with her limbs draped around me was maddening, until all I could conceive of was the level of sexual frustration that dominated my thoughts.

I'm honestly not sure what she wants from me, but I'm willing to wager it flies directly in the face of every warning I have given her. Warnings she has evidently taken little heed of.

Girls her age are sexual beings, governed by a ceaseless cycle of hormones. I've forgotten just how much; for my own sanity, at least. Bella's no exception. It's becoming precarious with her, and while I've been able to withstand her advances, I'm struggling. She realizes this, too, and she's deliberately wearing me down. She will often prance around me half-naked, and she's under no misapprehension of exactly what kind of physical response she's drawing from me.

I am still part-human, after all, and my body often functions on impulse alone. At times I have barely any control over it; even after hundreds of years of forcing it into dormancy out of sheer necessity. If anything, it has only made the primitive beast that forever lurks within me more restless.

Over the last several nights I've kept my watch over her from a perch on the roof of her bedroom window. The cool English night air is a welcoming relief from the constant seduction that is her presence.

The first night she sulked so much she resorted to punishing me by blurting out an obscene blasphemy that almost caused me to topple over the side of the building as my wings tore violently from my body. Forcing them fully free before again retracting them, I burst into her room, full of rage.

"What is wrong with you, Bella!?" I roared at her, causing her to immediately cower away from me. "If you insist on acting like a child, then I will have no choice but to remove myself from you. Is that what you want?"

She appeared momentarily full of remorse before she straightened up and glared back at me in defiance. "Well, go then, _Edward!_ " she mocked me. "I've survived twenty years without you!"

"You've survived by the grace of my brother who placed you out of harm's way, young lady. Don't forget that!" God in heaven, I sounded like her father, only reinforcing how unorthodox our relationship had become. Something she didn't miss, either

"Only because you're a _screw up_ of an angel who left me unprotected!" she yelled back, and her words stung. Then, grabbing the first object closest to her she hurled it at me.

It was a figurine of Michael, and for a fraction of a second I considered catching it before deciding to let it shatter against the wall; two inches from my head.

"Do you want me to leave?" I asked in a quiet voice, after giving her a moment to calm herself down.

"Yes— _leave_!" she fumed, then turning her back on me, she grabbed her book and threw herself stomach-first on her bed.

Releasing an exasperated breath, I climbed out her window and positioned myself back on the roof. Seer or no seer, I was beginning to understand exactly why I always had zero inclination toward teenage girls.

She hasn't spoken a word to me since.

I continue keeping a close watch over her, nonetheless; I couldn't stop if I wanted to. During the day I keep track of her through the minds and eyes of the sisters and the other various humans she interacts with. And when she leaves to go on her daily walk, I accompany her. It's still not safe for her to be outside the convent on her own, even with her amulet; as I discovered long before I arrived in the city.

There's four demons who still lust over her, and I fully anticipate that sooner or later one, or all, will come for her. They've shed her blood too many times over the centuries; it draws them to her, almost unwittingly. Together with her death and the power it will award them, it is too much of a temptation.

At some point soon I know I'll have to remove her and take her into hiding, but until I've worked out where and when, I've decided to keep it from her. My initial plan was to stay for as long as it took to draw the demons out, but in almost six months not a single fiend has come close. This concerns me, and I'm not naïve to believe they've willingly given her up to me.

They're undoubtedly planning something, and I don't want to alert Bella in any way and worry her. Though, while she's ignoring me she's making it a lot easier.

 **.**

Bella sits down on the park bench and opens her book: Wuthering Heights. It's her favorite she revealed to me previously, and she's read it several times.

I sit dutifully beside her; though, she behaves as if she's unaware of my presence. We're on the fourth day of silence and already it's exasperating. Her stubbornness is childish, but my frustration over it is infinitely worse, and the fact that I am unable to read her mind only exacerbates it.

"Isabella," I speak softly, appealing to her. " _Please_. This is getting ridiculous."

She shrugs a shoulder in a jerky, irritated motion, but otherwise continues to ignore me.

"B'Shem Yeshua! [In the name of Jesus]" I blaspheme, muttering it only partially beneath my breath before expelling it heavily. I swear in the name of God if her mind wasn't so closed to me, I'd start questioning whether she was actually Isobel.

"Why would I talk openly to my guardian angel?" she speaks a moment later without looking up from the pages of her novel; her casual tone completely feigned. "I see no one else doing it. People will think I'm mad."

" _Mad_?" I burst, beyond comprehension while struggling to keep the tone of my voice low. "You are _completely maddening_!" Lunging off the bench to my feet, I turn my back on her and walk with stiff, angry strides to the other side of the park; leaning up against the trunk of an old Ash tree. She has me so flustered and angry that I need to put a lot of distance between us before I do something I'll inevitably regret.

I fume, folding my arms tensely across my chest while I again wonder whether she's in fact closer to twelve than she is twenty, and what I ever saw in her beyond her silent mind that I had risked _and_ forsaken my heavenly body of light for this wretched human existence. I'm sure Michael knew of her temperament long before he led me to her, and is right now laughing at my expense.

She continues to read as if nothing had happened, and when she rises to take the rest of her walk back to the convent, I blindly follow. I linger at least twenty feet behind her, waiting for her to buy her coffee before once more trailing after her. Only this time, after taking several strides from the corner store, she pauses and turns to glance at me over her shoulder. She's waiting for me, and when my eyes catch hers she smiles, her entire face warming in apology.

"I'm sorry," she mouths slowly, something she speaks out loud when I reach her side.

I only nod, conceding; smiling slightly to myself, regardless.

"Peace offering?" she petitions, holding up a second cup of coffee and placing it in my hand.

I release my breath in relief just as much as exasperation. I open my mouth to beseech her to understand my actions, before cutting myself short.

A sudden revelation dawns on me.

As I gaze down at her impossibly beautiful, but no less young and innocent face, I realize I have been judging her by an unobtainable standard; by the standards I hold for myself. She's human, she's always been human, and yet, I expected her to exceed the limits of her own humanness; to share my knowledge and perception of the world. I've been incredibly arrogant, and have been seeing her through a lens slanted with the disdain I harbor for humanity.

While I've had four thousand years of life experience, she has not. She's young, but she's by no means a child, and yet she's been acting like one because a child is exactly how I have been treating her. My own basic lack of understanding of the human psyche is the cause of this. I've always regarded the human race as substandard and rudimentary, and have treated them in accordance. Bella included.

The brutal reality is she's an orphaned nineteen year old girl who's lived her entire life deliberately sheltered from the outside world. She's been shut away within the looming confines of the convent for reasons that were never explained to her before me. She has every reason to feel frustrated with her life. And she has every right to treat me just as disdainfully as I have—albeit unwittingly—been treating her.

That night she invites me back into her room where I sit beside her on her bed while she reads and watches her favorite sitcoms. At times she's content enough to talk to me, and I oblige her as much as I can without giving too much information away. She holds my hand and rests her head on my shoulder, and this time I don't discourage her. Instead, I relish the touch and feel of her smooth warm skin against me, and the way she fits so perfectly against my side.

Several times over the course of the night I check the perimeter of the city like I always do. There's nothing. I don't detect any of the fiend's minds, nor is there any whisper of them from the few humans who are still awake. Satisfied, I head back to Bella. It's a couple of hours before dawn and she's fast asleep.

I take the seat by her window and relax as I listen to her gentle rhythmic breathing. An hour passes, the sun is not yet visible over the horizon, but the sisters are already awake and beginning their day. They harbor a quiet acceptance of me, and while I still make every effort to avoid them, they haven't yet attempted to seek me out. The allusive _Michael_ , my brother—the very one whom they revere as a saint—has reassured them that I am not a danger to Bella, but a form of earthbound angel sent to protect her.

I find myself momentarily distracted in the pre-dawn Liturgy of the Hours prayer when an all too familiar sensation washes over my body of skin. In the next instant I completely freeze before lunging to my feet and reaching for the hilt of Michael's blade.

There's six of them, and they're less than a mile from the convent.


	11. Chapter 10

**The Fallen  
Chapter 10.**

Tearing my shirt over my head, I launch my wings free in the same motion before leaping out of Bella's bedroom window. I shoot straight up, roughly half a mile in the pre-dawn sky, while using the blue flame of Michael's sword to navigate. It's my best advantage to locate the demons as well as detect their minds without them becoming aware of my position.

This is when a measure of my apprehension eases. One of the demons is Ramuell and he's mentally broadcasting that he and his group harbor no threat toward me. In fact, his mind is fermenting with warnings.

The fallen are gathering against me.

I pinpoint their position south/west of the convent in the Birmingham Botanical Gardens. They're cloaked within the shadows of a grove of trees to the rear of the ground's main pavilion. I drop down silently, landing ten feet before them. I allow them to see the blade I'm wielding and that I won't hesitate to use it.

"Brother," Ramuell greets me, eyeing the sword cautiously as he steps forward with his hand outstretched.

I take it, remaining on guard as I scan his thoughts one more time before I'm satisfied his intentions are benign.

"Ramuell," I reciprocate before my gaze falls to the five demons who have hung back. I take a moment to study them, smiling fractionally to myself. While they want to appear bold and unfettered, their minds betray their true emotions. All five of them are terror-stricken by me. At least, they're terror-stricken by the weapon I wield that can end their accursed life in a single heartbeat.

It can and will if they so much as blink the wrong way at me. Though, not one of them has ever hunted Bella, and it's for that reason only that my hand is stayed.

"These are my brothers, Daniel, Arakiel, Tamiel, Asbeel and Bezaliel," Ramuell provides me with the once angelic names I have already plucked from their minds.

I nod, focusing on one in particular. Daniel. Daniel was still a part of the Order of Guardians at the time I was cast out. He fell sometime after for the shared crime as his five hapless companions; procreating with humans.

"Did you not take heed of your brothers' actions, Daniel?" I put to him curiously. Surely, by the time he became fallen he would have been aware of the dire nature of his actions.

"I loved her. I loved her so much I had lost all reason," he admits quietly, his eyes lowering to the ground as his entire expression almost completely splinters.

Another one...

He's keeping his thoughts regarding her guarded. Keeping her a secret. I can detect nothing of this ill-fated human from his mind, but his heart-break is undeniable; it is palpable. It's a cruel irony because while human's have the mercy of capricious emotions, flesh-bound angel's do not—even for a fallen. An angel's heart is as infallible as their senses, and so we must carry the burden for eternity.

Expelling my breath, I glance back at Ramuell. He's regarding Daniel with the same affinity they've found themselves damned by, and I'm unable to prevent myself from feeling sympathy for this wretched creature.

 _He loves them above all else. How did He not expect us to feel the same?_ Daniel's mind suddenly projects the evident conundrum that is his frustration.

I nod once in accord. I know only too well.

"We've come to warn you, brother," Ramuell speaks abruptly, and when I meet the sudden intensity of his gaze, he elaborates. "Word has got out of Azakeel's fate, and the four remaining demons of his pack are assembling an army against you. They're recruiting our brothers without forewarning them that you're in possession of Michael's sword."

I snort, wondering whether he expects me to pity them. "Don't they question why the beast hasn't returned? Are they that naïve?"

"They are being told the lie that Michael himself killed him," he answers. "Brother, hundreds are coming after you, but they have not yet fully amassed. Presently, they're grouped in four separate camps."

"When do they plan on making their move?" I ask, penetrating his thoughts for any information he might be attempting to keep from me.

I can ascertain nothing more.

"I'm not certain. A week, possibly sooner," Ramuell relays, gauging me square in the eyes.

I appraise him deliberately for a second or two before I take a measured step closer to him until his chest is only inches from mine. "If you attempt to play Judas with me, Ramuell, I will cut your heart out and bury your ashes with wild boars," I warn him, and to my surprise, he straightens up and shoves me; his expression twisting with resentment.

Naturally, I don't budge an inch, but it does nothing to lessen Ramuell's anger and indignation. "Don't fancy yourself so superior, _Dashiel,"_ he spits _,_ "We're guilty of loving our father's children. You're a _slayer of them_!"

Immediately enraged by the beast's audacity to judge me, I grab him by the throat with my free hand and propel his body forward. He lands heavily in the damp earth, coming to a skidding halt several feet away. I've done him no real harm, but his comrades need to know that while we were born of the same light, we are _not_ brothers _._

"You've been a part of the demons' legion for thousands of years, Ramuell," I seethe, pointing the tip of the burning blade at him. "So forgive me if I'm not immediately convinced of your veracity! And if you ever lay your rotting hands on me again, I'll sever your head from your shoulders without hesitating."

He pulls himself to his feet, and the demon is fuming. "We did not have to come here, _Edward_!" he taunts me, moving to stand before me again, directly challenging me. "All six of us have risked more than you could ever understand to warn you."

He's either incredibly brave or incredibly foolhardy. He knows he's no match for me and yet his defiance remains steadfast.

Taking a conceding breath, I lower the sword and relax my stance. "Calm yourself, brother," I concede. "I have to be certain where your loyalties lie."

He nods stiffly in admission; though, his expression remains piqued. "All six of us are rogue. They hunt us relentlessly."

I laugh openly and full of irony. "Welcome to four thousand years of my _godforsaken existence_ ," I snap with scorn as if the demons expect me to be sympathetic. "Your kind have hunted me and killed my human for centuries!"

"We have never hunted her, or any human, Edward, _"_ Daniel speaks up, and the pitiful wretch's tone is flat, dead. Much the same as his eyes. "We're only trying to exist."

I hold his gaze for no longer than a few seconds before quickly severing it. The demon is so tormented that it wearies me to be within his presence. I turn my attention back to Ramuell. He remains indignant; though, he's obviously realized the error in directly challenging me.

"Where are the beasts gathering?" I demand.

"Zelbukh's army is in Storuman, Sweden. Rizkeel's is in Kidata, Tanzania; Bezzael's, the Bay of Plenty, New Zealand; and Ozketh's is in Broken Bow Nebraska. They've been preparing for battle these last several weeks, and they'll soon be joining forces against you."

I take a stiff breath and quickly calculate a route to all four continents in my mind. I have possibly less than a week to find and ambush the demons, and it will mean leaving Bella unprotected.

"What are the numbers?" I bark out at Ramuell, but it's no longer him who's the cause of my agitation.

"At least one hundred and fifty strong in each camp."

"Do you carry a cell phone?" I ask.

"Yes," he answers, as the number for it is discharged through his thoughts.

"You know where Bella is?" I challenge him, my tone deliberately alluding to the warning of what will happen to him if the notion of harming her ever crosses his mind.

One of the demons snorts before speaking up on Ramuell's behalf, "Every member of the damned on the planet knows, Dashiel. You've released your wings how many times in her company?"

I have the fiend by the throat not a second later, tearing his head back with so much force his cervical vertebrae snaps loudly. "Be careful, swine," I seethe, placing the blade against his jugular before again turning to Ramuell.

His eyes are wide with panic while his companion's roars slice through the stillness of daybreak.

"Are you able to control your _pack_ , Ramuell?" I growl, and he nods adamantly and without pause.

"Forgive me, brother," the demon Tamiel beseeches me.

Releasing the beast, I force him, stomach first, to the ground and plunge the sword through his shoulder. It's not enough to kill him, but a reminder to never open his mouth to speak of Bella again.

"Teach your vermin some control, Ramuell!" I shout over the demon's howls. Then releasing the sword, I shove Tamiel away from me with the sole of my foot. "You _do not speak of her—DO YOU UNDERSTAND?!"_

"Brother, _please_ ," Ramuell appeals to me, his hands raised, palms toward me in surrender while his pitiful band of comrades scramble to position themselves behind him.

"Guard the boundaries of her city!" I order him, struggling to control my anger as I point the sword to his throat in direct threat. "But _do not_ enter it. I'm not playing with you, Ramuell. If you so much as take a single step inside I will hunt you down and end your pitiful existence. Am I clear?"

"You are clear," he answers, his voice quiet even as it simmers with resentment.

"If you come across any of your swine you contact me _immediately_ ," I instruct him, my voice restricting as my entire body of muscles tenses. I have to leave her. It's unavoidable. I have no other choice.

"I understand the dire nature of your request, brother. You can trust me," he stresses, and while his mind floods with sincerity, I cannot bring myself to yet have complete faith in him.

"Do not _cross me_ ," I warn him once more.

He shakes his head in reply and lowers his eyes in submission.

"I'll be in contact," I add, then glancing at Daniel, I nod my head slightly in acknowledgement before launching myself back into the sky.

As I drop back to the roof of the convent the first light of the sun's rays is already flooding the landscape. If I am seen, I care not; my thoughts are elsewhere.

Bella remains sleeping peacefully, but I cannot stop for an instant to regard her. I head straight out of her room and down the darkened stone-walled hall; following the inner voices of the sisters as I seek out the Mother Superior. I find the congregation of women on the ground floor of the building in the oratory in the midst of their contemplative prayers.

"Excuse me, Reverend Mother?" I make my voice heard respectfully just as several gasps echo sharply around the stone chamber.

While all of the sisters have become familiar with my constant presence, their shock over beholding me, bear-chested and footed, with my grey wings outstretched is evident. One of the younger, wispier sisters faints, and while the others rush to tend to her needs, they do so while their eyes don't deviate from my still form.

"How can I help you, son?" The older, most revered of the sisters comes forward, her voice wavering as she clutches at her rosary beads. Her mind continues her prayers in Latin in an uneasy, nervous fluidity.

"May I speak with you?" I petition, my tone emphasizing the importance of my request.

She falters, observing me for a moment. "Come this way, please," she eventually responds before leading me around several corridors to a small timber paneled office. She takes a seat in a mahogany wing-backed chair. She is clearly shaken, and I wonder if any of them ever truly believed the account of the two sisters who'd witnessed the day my wings were driven from me.

"I have to leave," I inform her before she can open her mouth to speak. "The demons are coming for me."

Her eyes widen as her small withered hands tighten around her chaplet of pearls. Her question first formulates in her mind, when I again intercept her.

"Isabella should be safe. They're coming for me, not her, but you have to make sure she does not leave the grounds," I again stress the dire nature of the situation.

"She has grown quite strong-willed, as you know," the small woman explains as her eyes nervously flick from my wings back to my fixed gaze. "I'm afraid nothing short of locking her inside her room will achieve that."

"Do what you must, but please promise me you won't let her out of your sight?" I beg her a little too desperately.

"You have my word," she assures me, her eyes dropping to her rosary before she continues her internal prays.

"Can I bother you for a supply of anointing oil and holy water?" I request. "As well as any crosses or crucifixes you have that have been blessed."

"Yes, of course," she nods. "I have a crucifix blessed by Pope John Paul the second. I can leave it in your care."

"Thank you." I bow my head with due respect before turning to take my leave back to Bella's room.

She's just beginning to rouse when I enter, and the sight of my wings openly alarms her; she hasn't witnessed them since our first encounter in the park.

"Edward—what's happening?" she leaps out of her bed to stand before me; her palms flush against my chest as she stares up into my eyes.

Placing my palms around her shoulders I guide her once more back to her bed, sitting her on the edge.

"Bella, listen to me very carefully," I appeal to her, making every effort not to alarm her further while expressing the seriousness of the situation. "I have to leave for a while."

She sucks in her breath to object, immediately shaking her head. "No!"

"I have to, Bella. I have no choice," I reiterate, placing my palm to her cheek. "It won't be for too long."

"Where are you going?" she asks, her eyes wide and afflicted by genuine fear.

"Nowhere you need to concern yourself with," I answer, deliberately keeping my tone gentle to placate her.

"Take me with you," she begs me

"I can't," I admit regrettably, as her eyes this time slowly fill with tears. "Bella, please try to understand."

"Edward, please, _please_ don't leave me here. I'm going out of my mind— _please_!" Her tears spill over before she grabs hold of me and locks her arms around my waist.

"Bella..." I begin, but discarding it I encircle my arms around her and pull her further against my chest. Her small body trembles against me, and it steels my resolve. "When I get back, I promise you— _I swear to you_ —I will take you away, but you must promise me to stay here in the convent until I return." Cupping her face in both my palms, I angle her head to meet her eyes. "Can you promise me that?"

She nods in a shaky movement even as her tears continue to spill silently down her face. "I would promise you anything," she proclaims, before roughly inhaling back her sobs. "But you have to promise me something too."

"Anything," I vow.

"Please come back to me."


	12. Chapter 11

**The Fallen**

 **Chapter 11**

I don't have the luxury to wait until nightfall. Once the Reverend Mother supplies me with the items I've requested—leaving them in a duffel bag outside Bella's bedroom door—I leave.

Bella's anguish is tangible. It threatens to sever my wretched heart in two, making it that much harder to leave her. But I have no choice.

Impulsively and too roughly, I pull her to me, enclosing her in my arms for one agonizing moment before releasing her. She's crying uncontrollably as she continues to cocoon herself to my chest, and it's debilitating me as I stand here.

"When I return, I'll take you away from here," I once more vow, my tone becoming compromised. "Do you trust me?"

She nods, hiccupping and removing one of her arms from around me to futilely wipe her eyes.

I draw her closer to me in a move to kiss her brow, but anticipating me, she stretches up until my lips plant against hers. In that one moment, and exactly like the first time, my will falters and I come very close to surrendering.

I could take her now, somewhere where the beasts won't find us; where I can take them out one by one, I attempt to rationalize with myself, as my lips remain merged with the soft suppleness of hers. But I can't. I have to head off this offensive now or risk both myself and Bella falling prey to them.

Pulling back from her, I pluck a base feather from my wings and hold it out to her. "Here, keep this," I whisper, running its tip delicately over her cheek.

She breaks into a small smile, bringing it to her nose, and on impulse I once more pull her to me.

"Two weeks—no more," I reiterate my promise to her.

"Okay," she replies softly in a wavering voice.

Pulling myself hastily from her, and without looking back, I reach down and grab the canvas bag before propelling myself through her window.

My first destination is Sweden being it's the closest to her.

I realize I won't have to take on every demon who gathers against me. I only have to make known the dire risk they're taking by demonstrating the power of Michael's sword. After I send several of the beasts to Hell, I fully expect the rest to scatter like cockroaches. Though, I have every intention of exterminating the four parasites who have been killing Bella for centuries, and with as much mercy as they have shown her.

I travel over water through the height of the troposphere, past the North Sea, and then onto the Norwegian Sea before heading east over Norway into Sweden. The city Ramuell gave me is in the north half of the country on a large waterway.

The locals are aware of the swarming beasts; their minds are brimming with the knowledge and quiet apprehension of their presence. On the surface there appears nothing out of the ordinary with these "tourists"; though, their thoughts betray their seemingly outward calm in regards to them. They inherently sense the unnatural danger the outsiders present them, even if they're too mindlessly craven to give it a voice.

Though, through their minds, I'm quickly able to pinpoint the fiends' exact location. They're situated seven miles north/east of the town in a dense forest hillside, adjacent a large lake. I keep to the sky, coming within a mile and a half of the demons' encampment before circling the perimeter. There's just over one hundred of the fallen, and Zelbukh keeps himself in the center of them at all times, like the coward he is.

After returning to the town, I retract my wings—ignoring the unashamed stares of the locals as I walk amongst them, naked apart from a pair of torn, black jeans—before acquiring myself a cell phone, a length of rope, and a hotel room.

The room, I do not pay for, is bare and small, inconspicuous, with a single bed to one side, and an equally sparse bathroom on the other. Unzipping the duffel bag, I upend its contents over the bed covering—that looks like its origins began in the 1950s. There are dozens of small 100 ml bottles of both holy water and anointing oil, as well as several crucifixes. The largest is roughly twenty inches in length, forged from twenty-four karats of pure gold. It's heavy and will make a good weapon.

After separating the holy water from the anointing oil, I grab the cell phone I'd purchased and tear it from its packaging. I make a point of not coercing anything over the amount of one thousand dollars from humans. So, in the name of Edward Masen, I signed up for an iPhone cell plan that I have no intention of using.

There's a simple crack in activating these devices that most humans are not aware of. Though, free coverage for emergency numbers should be the tip-off. Switching the phone on, I open the system's settings and punch in the code of numbers to access it. In a matter of seconds it is unlocked and unrestricted, providing me with unlimited use. Next I call Ramuell, dialing in the numbers he had unwittingly disclosed to me.

"Where are you?" I demand before the demon has the chance to speak.

"Coventry," he answers.

"Where is your pack?"

"They're securing the borders of the city."

"Has the situation changed?"

"No."

I disconnect the call and wait.

I cannot release my wings to take to the sky or I will alert the demons of my proximity. I have no choice but to travel on foot. I make my move at sundown, but before I leave, I coat my entire body from head to toe with several layers of anointing oil; including my hair. It will act as a barrier, burning any of the demons who touch me. Next I plug the small bathroom basin, fill it with holy water and submerge the rope, soaking it for several minutes. Then reeling it over my shoulder, I grab the crucifix, hooking it through a side belt loop of my jeans, and set off.

There's roughly a dozen of the beasts patrolling the encampment a mile out. They'll be the first to detect me. My first objective is to take them out, all of them and quickly before they alert Zelbukh and the rest of the demons.

Without the need to release my wings, I slay every fiend bar one; Ammon. Ammon is the beast I plan to use. He's a particularly vile creature whose one fetish is defiling the hapless humans, male and female, he tricks into selling their souls. He violates them to the point of their deaths before he eats their flesh. It's his obsession, and his every thought is monopolized with his loathsome desires even as I pursue him.

The fiend is more beast than he ever was fallen angel. In fact, he's so cruel and sadistic, that even among the other demons, who fancy themselves _civilized_ , he's considered repugnant.

The beast is a coward. Once he's fully aware of me, and after the last of the demons guarding watch is reduced to ash—that I made sure he bore witness to—he turns and flees in the direction of the camp, squealing like a pig. His panic makes him clumsy and witless, and after herding him further away from the army of demons, I effortlessly reel him in; though, not before toying with him first.

I allow him to see me, to see the sword that he now knows will end his miserable existence, before I give him room to run. Then, permitting him to believe he's escaped me several times, I drop before him from the branches of the spruce trees I'd been tracking him from, blocking his escape route, and sending him scrambling in the opposite direction.

I continue this game of cat and mouse until the pathetic beast drops to the ground in surrender, shrieking in terror. I approach him slowly, with deliberate intimidation, when projections of the demon's mind cause me to immediately falter and then freeze to the spot, rigid and fuming. He's showing me his inner most desires regarding Bella, and the beast has, on more than one occasion, seen her in the flesh.

Despite my disgust for him, I understand his thought process; he's resigned to his fate, and he hopes to provoke me into granting him a quick death.

He's gravely mistaken.

Grabbing the vial of holy water from my pocket, I douse the beast in it; smirking to myself when he immediately howls out into the twilight in agony. He tremors violently, his skin immediately erupting into weeping boils as he openly skulks from me.

"Please, _Please_!" he screeches pitifully, his arms raised defensively.

Grabbing the fiend by his long, filthy dark hair, I slam him up against the coarse, fragmented bark of a pine tree before drawing my face only fractions from his until his rancid breath fills my nostrils.

"By the time I'm done with you, _Ammon_ , you will be _begging_ me for death," I promise him in a seething whisper.

He laughs, spitting in my face behind the thick, congested sound of it. "It's too late, _Dashiel_. The whore will soon be ours."

I jerk him closer to me by the scruff of his filthy cotton shirt, struggling to suppress the thundering roar amassing within my throat. I'm only half successful as the beast's eyes immediately widened in alarm. Releasing him, I allow him to drop to the ground before pulling the crucifix free and pressing it to the beast's forehead. He begins to convulse as the rotting stench of his burning flesh pollutes the air.

"Please do _piss me off_ more, swine!" I speak lowly, using this century's crude language even as my voice tremors with rage.

He's spoken my name, announcing my location to the nearby demons. I was never going to be able to advance on the camp undetected, so bracing myself, I release my wings. Then shoving the demon to his stomach, I hog-tie his hands and feet together with the rope, before once more flipping him on his back. With his arms and legs both behind him, he lays on an awkward angle as he squirms, hollering against the rope that simmers his flesh.

"Be silent, you parasite!" I growl, stomping my foot on his chest and forcing him flat despite the position he's in.

Both his shoulders dislocate, but before he can react, I reach beneath his pants and tear his underwear free. Then soaking the squalid material in holy water, I shove it in the demon's mouth, gagging him quiet, and wiping my hand roughly against my jeans, repulsed.

Then, bending down to heave the swine off the ground, I pause and confess to him with full intent over his muffled cries, "That human anatomy that you like using so much...?" I allude, raising a brow in direct emphasis. "I'm going to make sure I send you to Hell without it."

Heaving the beast over my shoulder by the section of rope between his hands and feet, and with Michael's sword ablaze in my hand, I walk with calculated ease into the waiting encampment.

They're expecting me, but even as they swarm around me, their limited minds are overrun with panic.

"Kill him!" I hear a demon yell desperately from the midst of the chaos, but none of them are brave enough to get within six feet of me.

I scatter them regardless, throwing holy water over them as I make my way through the horde of them. They immediately fall over each other in blind panic as they screech and tear at their blistering flesh, while those unaffected, and who are stupid enough to get too near me, feel the blow of the crucifix that I wield in my left hand. Several grab at my wings, attempting to pull me over backwards, but whirling around, and dropping Ammon heavily to the ground, I raise the sword and swiftly reduce them to ash.

Shock and disbelief immediately overruns them, and as I continue forward, premeditatedly, they disperse all around me in greater length; giving me more room.

Hauling the smoldering body of Ammon to the highest part of the small clearing where they're gathered, I cut the beast free; dragging him to his feet before me by the back of his neck.

"IF YOU BEASTS WANT TO KILL ME, HERE I AM!" I shout loudly to be heard among the scores of them. "BUT KNOW THIS. _I_ KILLED EZEKEEL, BECAUSE _I_ WIELD MICHAEL'S SWORD!" I use it to point down at the masses of them before I kick Ammon's legs apart.

While their minds are buzzing with erratic, contradicting emotions—that range from seething fury, to fear, to their evident hunger to kill me and sink their teeth into my flesh—they're seemingly unable to move. Their eyes remain fixed to the blade that I move meticulously between Ammon's legs. The fiend is wailing pitifully while the thick black blood of his damned kind oozes from his nose, causing him to go into periodic bouts of choking.

"IF THIS IS WHAT YOU WANT YOUR FATE TO BE, BY ALL MEANS, COME AT ME!" I thrust the sword up and the blue light of the blade easily slices through the demon from his groin to his mid-section. He erupts into spasms before dropping to his knees and falling forward. I drive the blade forcefully up through his chest and then his head, where I sever the beast into two equal halves that immediately explode into thick, smoking ash.

The demon's noxious cinders blacken me, momentarily blinding me. But I don't need sight to know several of the beasts, crazed by the audacity of my actions, lunge forward. Four, five—seven of them are sent to their downfall before they're within an arm's length of me as panic descends on the camp. Their wings burst from them as one by one they take to the sky in escape. I let them go, for now; my focus on one, and only one of the beasts.

Zelbukh.

Several of the demons have turned on him, and as he struggles to fend them off, he's momentarily distracted from my advancement. I take deliberate, measured steps toward him. I have no intention of rushing this moment, but by the same hand, I don't leave him room to prepare himself. He sees me at the last second, and as the demons scatter and flee in my presence like the vermin they are, I already have hold of him. He's strong and could easily fight me off if I gave him the chance.

I don't.

He opens his mouth to protest, or plead—I care not—when without hesitation, I plunge the sword down his throat, twisting it to detach his head.

In less than a minute the camp is abandoned. I stand in the midst of it, besmirched in the black soot of the beasts' remains while realizing I have never been further from grace than this very moment.

But God help me, I relished it, because for Bella I would do almost anything.


	13. Chapter 12

**The Fallen**

 **Chapter 12**

I head next to Africa, and three days later, with scores of the demons dead, Rizkeel, the last among them and the rest of the army disbanded, I set my sights to New Zealand.

Rimuell assures me that there has been no breaches of Bella's city by rogue demons, and after calling the Reverend Mother at St Mary's Convent, I'm assured of Bella's wellbeing. So far she's compliant, but she's becoming more and more restless as time passes.

It was on the tip of my tongue to request the Reverend Mother to put Bella on the phone, but I resisted. It wasn't easy, but it's imperative that I keep my thoughts clear. Bella is a weakness the fiends will all too happily exploit, and I can't compromise myself. I have to remain detached until it's done; until the last of the beasts are reduced to ash.

Bezzael's army is camped to the east of the North Island on the Bay of Plenty in the forest highlands of Matahi. The scenery is straight out of 'Middle Earth' and the devils fit right in. However, unlike Sweden and Tanzania, they do not lay in wake for me, but wage an offensive the moment they detect my presence.

I battle the demons well into the night, and for the majority by air.

Like the two beasts before him, Bezzael had deliberately deceived his army in regards to Michael's sword. He keeps them separated, dividing them into several smaller divisions, and in doing so cuts off direct contact between them. By the time the demons of each brigade become aware of the peril they're in, they're ash before they can warn their brethren.

By the same hand Bezzael gives me a great advantage. I only have to battle with small groups of the beasts at once as I meticulously draw them out; one by one.

By morning the battle is won. The majority of the demons have either been slain or have fled. Though, I have taken more damage than I anticipated, and my strength is dwindling. I don't, however, have the luxury to take pause and recuperate, and without another moment to lose, I focus my attention on Bezzael.

I hunt the swine relentlessly throughout the next day and night. Like the coward he is, he deserted his army the moment I took the advantage and escaped to the cover of the forest; knowing enough not to take to the sky.

The demon is stronger than I am so I cannot risk a land battle. I have no choice but to entice him into the air.

Like a snake in the cane fields I am forced to smoke him out, and within minutes I have set the forest ablaze. The beast quickly becomes ensnared by a compass of fire that steadily advances upon him. He will soon have no choice but to take flight. The demon's blood is highly flammable; he will not risk the fire knowing it will easily consume him and leave him scarred. His vanity alone will prevent it.

I keep close track of his thoughts; he's panicking. He knows I have closed in on him. He's also aware that my wounds have healed, and gone is any advantage he might have held over me.

Nevertheless, I've lost a lot of blood; its dried remnants are caked over almost my entire body. I am tired and almost stricken with thirst, but with an impenetrable resolve, I hold my position.

I am half a mile above, encircling the demon, waiting to ambush him, when he finally accepts the inevitable and shoots into the air.

My patience has paid off. I have the high ground advantage and immediately advance upon him.

At first it appears as if he hasn't see me, until the last moment when he flips in the air to face me; easily ducking beneath the blade of the sword.

I shoot past him, and as I reverse to turn back, he propels himself higher into the air. His motive is still to escape. I immediately take pursuit, swiftly catching up to him, and just as I am within arm's reach, he again turns to face me. Only this time he lunges at me, his eyes burning fierce with the animalism all his kind possess. Including me.

Grabbing hold of my wings, he pulls himself onto my back before I feel the odious sensation of his teeth sinking into my flesh at the base of my neck. I am instantly infected, corrupted by the demon's darkness, and as I struggle to throw him off, my brain becomes clouded and foggy; my movements increasingly uncoordinated. Then, entrenching his talons deep into my back to anchor himself, the beast takes several frenzied chunks of my flesh with his teeth. His toxin continues to invade my bloodstream, multiplying and expanding through me until I feel myself rapidly succumbing.

Even as I physically falter beneath the beast, as my vision shrouds around the periphery, my mind doesn't cease its warnings for me not to yield.

"Bella..." I utter weakly, the syllables slurring together as her face flashes behind my closed eyelids.

Her image, acting like a shock wave pulsing through me, pulls me back from the edge of surrender. With a tremendous burst of will, refusing to allow this beast to kill me and place Bella in mortal danger, I propel myself into a rapid spiral. The demon means to decapitate me, and the taste of my flesh has strengthened him. As I continue to whirlwind, picking up so much speed the air whistles sharply around my spinning form, the demon's grip loosens; his claws serrating through my back and several layers of muscle as he's dislodged.

The instant I throw him off, I turn and wildly swing the blade back and forth, half-blinded by my own spilled blood and heavily depleted state. And by sheer chance, or miracle, I manage to cleave off one of the demon's wings just inches from his scapula bone. He immediately falls, spinning off-balance as he plummets, even as he futilely attempts to right himself, single-winged.

The beast has severed through the body of muscle I use to fly, and I struggle to catch him; all but clumsily free-falling behind him. I reach him less than five hundred feet to the forest floor, and in a single laborious stroke, using both my hands—and gathering all my remaining strength in one final, agonizing roar—I drive the sword through his mid-section, severing him clean half.

For several seconds he continues to fall, his entrails and inner organs escaping its smoking encasement and entangling together comically after him. I catch the shock of his gaze, holding it until he fully succumbs to the finality of my brother's sword, as his smoldering remains rain down upon the scorched forest below.

I drop heavily to the ground a moment later. I am wavering and uncoordinated in my weakened condition. Stumbling clumsily in my desperation, I head toward the nearby Waimana River.

"Father, help me..." I blurt out senselessly as I crawl painfully through the sandbank, but even in my delirium I am conscious enough to understand it is my human father, Carlisle, I long for. Not my creator. No, my Heavenly father has long since forsaken me to the bowels of this wretched world.

Reaching the river's edge I collapse, submerging my entire face into the frigid temperature of the water. The shock if it alone snaps some level of lucidity back into me, before I take several huge mouthfuls rehydrating my parched body. After, I return to the shadows of the forest where I take shelter long enough to sleep and heal. It's the first time I have slept in months, and while I only require three hours at best, I awaken with a start and a growing sense of unrest. It was three hours I needed to fully recover, but time I do not have.

Without a moment's delay I launch myself into the sky and again head north. I reach the country of my birth in just under five hours, at dusk, before continuing to the Great Plains of the Midwest. Broken Bow is more or less the geographic center of Nebraska, occupied by not quite four thousand souls and surrounded by prairie lands. There is nothing extraordinary about it, apart from the fact that the minds of the locals do not give up a single clue as to the whereabouts of the demons. Not a single person has been made aware of their presence at the present moment or at any time over the last decade. At least, not that I can ascertain.

I make landfall five miles north of the county, pulling the cell phone from my pocket as I do. The screen is cracked and smeared with dried blood, soot and ash. Impatiently, I wipe it against the denim of my equally filthy jeans enough to successfully call Ramuell.

"Broken Bow Nebraska!" I snap down the receiver at him before he has the opportunity to take a breath. "Are you absolutely sure about that?—because I am detecting nothing of the beasts!"

I am met by momentary silence before the demon breaches it; his voice flooding with uncertainty. "Is it possible they have already left, brother?"

"They have never been here, Ramuell—that's the point I am trying to make!" I holler; though, I'm not angered by the fiend as much as I'm frustrated and filling with a sense of urgency.

This is followed by more silence before Ramuell begins to stutter, but I am past the patience for him.

"Has the city been breached?" I bark out at him sharply.

"No, there has been nothing," is his reply.

"See that it remains that way!" I disconnecting the call, needing a moment of clarity before I burst once more into action.

I probe the town several times before I begin to branch outward, going as far east as Omaha and as west as Cheyenne, but I can determine nothing of Ozketh and his army. There isn't a whisper of them, leading me to conclude that the town's folk are completely ignorant to their existence, or of any demons.

I can come to no other conclusion other than either Ramuell has crossed me, or he himself was deceived. In either case, I am left with no other choice but to fly back to Bella and take her into hiding. And as my thoughts linger on it, my mind formulating a plan, the urgency of the situation becomes increasingly impressed on me.

Ozketh will not hesitate to kill Bella, and I in all possibility have been deliberately distracted.

I kneel, bracing to launch myself into the air when I feel his presence. Or rather, when he makes his presence known to me.

My heart seizes, and spinning around, I release the blue blade of Michael's sword, coming face to face with the beast.

He is standing not twenty feet from me. He is passive, both his hands raised in submission, while his thoughts broadcast the benevolence of his motives.

"I mean you no harm, brother," he speaks quietly as I dissect the demon's name from his thoughts.

Asael; though, he has given himself a human name. Jacob.

Pointing the blade tip at him, I approach him slowly; my steps measured but cautious.

"Tell me what you know?" I order him, and for a brief period he does not move to speak.

Then taking a breath, he bows his head. "You have been mocked, brother."

In the next instant I have him by the back of his head and long black hair, holding the blade against his jugular.

"What is your meaning!?" I demand; though, I am already aware.

"Ozketh used you to take out his three competing brothers, and Ramuell to remove you from your human," he explains hastily and with increasingly panic. "He knew Ramuell would warn you. You played right into his hands."

"I am _NOT YOUR BROTHER_!" I shout, shoving him away from me before dropping to my knees and tearing at my hair in a moment of dismay.

How could I have allowed this? How could I have been so easily deceived?

Lurching to my feet, I again point the blade at the beast, who calmly pulls himself to his feet.

"WHERE IS HE?" I demand, sounding increasingly unbalanced in my growing anxiety.

"He was never here, Edward," the demon explains having the courtesy to use my human name. "As far as I am aware, he's been in Ireland waiting for the moment when you were the furthest from your human."

For the briefest moment I am suspended in shock and confusion, attempting to comprehend how I could have made such a blatant error, even as the truth of it steadily dawns on me.

I once more lunge at him, catching him by the length of his hair, and driving the sword only a fraction from the beast's face. I am becoming overthrown by panic, and it is blinding me to all reason.

"Why are you telling me now?" I utter, my arm, my entire body of skin, trembling behind the force of my rising fear and rage.

"I only knew of it yesterday, brother," he appeals to me desperately, continuing to raise his hands in surrender, his eyes wide in fear.

My mind turns blank, and I release him, stepping back clumsily and almost losing my footing. He falls heavily to the ground before hastily picking himself up, but instead of fleeing, he stands his ground.

I am frozen in a long moment of disconcertion, and though my anger is simmering to the point that my fingers itch to strike the demon, _Jacob_ , down, I don't. I cannot move, even as every instinct within me pushes me to fly back to her.

No more than three seconds pass when the phone in my front pocket vibrates, immediately severing me from my momentary suspension.

I answer it, placing it to my ear, and before I can utter a syllable, Ramuell's voice, shrill and full of panic begins in an onslaught. "Brother, they're coming. They're not fifty miles away and they're bringing with them an army of humans to seize her!"

"Where is Bella?" I demand, and just the act of speaking her name, immediately snaps my senses back in place.

"Still in the convent."

"Okay, listen to me," I begin, while I hold the sword eye level with Jacob, silently threatening him not to move, "you have my permission to take Bella to safety. Do it now!"

"But, brother," Ramuell hesitates, "the talisman..."

He leaves it unspoken while my rationality all but splinters. "HOW DO YOU KNOW ABOUT IT?" I roar, my voice echoing threefold around the open fields.

"I-we... all know about it," he confesses.

I shake my head in a futile attempt to pull myself together. "There is no time, Ramuell. Rip the damn thing from her any way you can—just _do it_!"

"Okay, brother." His voice takes on a resolute edge while my heart clenches in contradiction.

"Ramuell!" I burst in immediate panic as every muscle within my body locks. "If any harm befalls her..."

"Brother, you have my word," he assures me.

I open my mouth to threaten him further, but stop myself knowing it's in vain. I have no choice but to put my faith in him, and the beast isn't stupid enough not to understand the consequences if he crosses me. I will hunt him down and grant him a grisly death if he, or any one of his pack, harms a single hair on Bella's head.

"LEKHAL HARUKHOTT!" I rage, balling my hands into fists as I blaspheme my father's name defiantly in Hebrew before again in English. "GOD DAMN IT!"

Then turning my back on Jacob, I vault into the air. I go straight up, breaching the stratosphere before I propel myself down on a steady decline toward Europe.

I push the limits of my speed and endurance more than I have at any other time in my existence until my muscles burn and my wings feel like they are going to tear from my back by the velocity of the wind speed alone. It is physically punishing, and by the time I reach Birmingham in the early afternoon, I am almost as exhausted as I was after battling Bezzael and his army.

There are several demons within the parameters of the town. I sense them almost immediately, but I cannot concentrate on them just yet.

I drop down awkwardly on the roof of the convent, my concentration focused on the voices within. There is a real sense of alarm. The sisters are shaken and in panic.

Bella has been taken and they're more than aware by who.

The scene of her kidnapping is being replayed repeatedly in their minds. She put up a fight, but they quickly overpowered her. I can hear her screaming my name, my real name, with too much clarity through the memories of multiple sources even as the sound of her voice fades away into the distance. It torments me more than I am prepared for until the agony of it becomes almost physical. I am not used this level of pain over another human being.

I'm unsure I can bear it.

I enter Bella's room and to the scene of her struggle. Most of her furniture is toppled over while the majority of her angel paraphernalia litters the floor. And while I cannot allow myself to lose focus by it, I'm somewhat relieved that it's Daniel's scent that I am picking up more than any other.

I don't linger, but head straight into the stone hall in search of the Reverend Mother.

I pass several of the sisters; my appearance startles them, and through their eyes I see how I look. I am filthy; my jeans hang ripped and torn from my hips, while my exposed skin and wings are cementedd with blood and soot. I look almost wild and primitive; my eyes revealing every aspect of the predator I have become.

I find the small elderly woman in the same place I left her a week prior. She too is surprised by my appearance, but only initially.

"She is gone, Dashiel," she admits softly, her voice breaking. "I'm sorry, I have no idea how they were able to penetrate the defenses of her amulet."

And through her mind I see Daniel struggling to control Bella. Bella was literally beating against him, and he allowed her to.

He was behaving like a... gentleman.


	14. Chapter 13

**The Fallen**

 **Chapter 14.**

Several demons lurk within the perimeter of the town, but it's Daniel whom I sense above all others.

He's nearby.

Climbing through Bella's bedroom window to the roof of the convent, I call him; he appears only moments later.

"Brother," he addresses me with a slight nod of his head after he lands soundlessly on the roof beside me. _Ramuell has her. He and my brothers have taken her west into Wales_ , he mentally relays to me.

I nod, almost dropping to my knees in overwhelming relief, when Daniel informs me of what I already suspect.

 _Ozketh has his scouts out searching. He believes you removed her before you hunted him and his brothers down. He's furious._

Despite the situation, I break into a small rueful smile, but it almost immediately vanishes. "Take me to her."

Daniel leads me, frustratingly slowly at a speed one third I am accustomed to, into central wales to a town named Carmarthen, and then onto an abandoned mansion several miles out. It's situated on several acres of neglected, overgrown garden, while the structure itself is dark and derelict with crumbling masonry. The walls of its façade are overrun with undergrowth and coils of ivy that creep in through every bare, darkened window.

Daniel lands precariously on a south-facing second story sill and climbs inside. I follow suit, finding myself surrounded by dank, rotting wood, peeling plasterwork and filthily littered floors.

I'd detected the beasts' minds from half a mile out, and inside this bleak and dismal structure the incoherent, panicked projections of their subconscious is stark; immediately putting me on edge.

"Ramuell!?" I call impatiently.

Out of the shadows he appears with Tamiel close behind.

"Brother," he greets me, the tone of his voice blatantly apprehensively before he comes to a standstill not less than ten feet from me. And even in the dimness of light, it's evident the beast is avoiding my gaze.

"Where. Is. She?" I demand lowly.

"Brother..." he repeats but is immediately stonewalled.

His thoughts, however, betray him, and through them I see Bella escaping her bungling captors and disappearing into the surrounding shadows of the mid-afternoon.

Immediately irate, I advance on him. Grabbing him by the throat, I slam him against the wall as a disturbance of dust and crumbling plaster erupts around him.

"YOU LET HER GO!?" I roar, ripping Michael's sword from the waist of my pants and placing the tip of it directly between his eyes.

He flinches but attempts to steel himself as the burning point of the light simmers his flesh.

"I apologize, Brother, but-but she had holy water—she doused us in it," he stammers to explain.

"B'Shem Adonia! [In the name of the Lord]" I snap, all but convulsing in rage. "You incompetent _IMBECILE_! SHE IS _ONE_ HUMAN GIRL!"

"Edward," Tamiel steps forward and attempts to justify his ineptness. "We told her we were acting on your instruction, but she refused to listen. She wouldn't stop fighting."

Releasing Ramuell, who drops heavily to the damp wooden floor, I turn on Tamiel, holding the sword to his neck. "You are a demon thousands of years old," I fume, speaking lowly even as my voice tremors in anger. " _She_ is a human girl. There is _no_ justification for this!"

He openly cowers before me, all but prostrating himself, before I whip back around to Ramuell.

"Do you mean to tell me that five beasts couldn't keep _one_ human under control?" And before he can answer I sink the blade into his shoulder all but severing his arm from his body. "I should kill you for this," I seethe in barely a whisper, holding his gaze as he fights the torment I know the flame of Michael's sword is causing him before I tear it from him.

Floundering once more to the floor, and using the wall for support, he clutches at his arm and gasps for breath.

"Forgive me, brother," he utters, struggling to get to his feet. "It was myself and Tamiel who were in charge of her. Daniel stayed behind to wait for you, and my brothers Arakiel, Asbeel and Bezaliel are patrolling the edges of the city."

I take a single step toward him, causing him to lurch away from me; once more finding himself flat against the surface of the decaying wall.

" _Find her_ , Ramuell, and _pray_ no harm has come to her," I warn him darkly, and before he can respond I grab his stricken arm and snap it back into its socket.

He jerks in shock before realization evidently sinks in. Lowering his eyes submissively, he motions to Tamiel and the pair of them disappear through the same window I had entered.

I turn to Daniel; his eyes have followed Ramuell and he stares through the window opening, his expression undecipherable.

"Stay with me," I instruct him quietly.

He nods, and I follow the two half-witted beasts before me through the window and out into the town's sky.

Daniel and I circumnavigate the town twice when I detect it. There is something odd about this village. Something unsanctified; something almost damned.

On the surface the riverside town appears quaint and picturesque, and yet everything about it is overshadowed by a malignance. It lurks in every shadow, hanging in the air; a necrosis that is all-encompassing despite its benign appearance.

And there isn't a whisper of Bella. The minds of the town's folk are hollow, vacant, almost blank, and they walk around like apparitions. Even the children are no exception.

I am unsure whether I am more unnerved than I am in a state of alarm. My heart is beginning to race with more than just fear for Bella; my senses are heightening in a mechanism of defense.

Dropping down on the tower roof of one of the town's many churches, I tear my palm back through my hair in frustration. I need to collect my thoughts and extract them from my increasing panic if I ever have hope of finding her, but I'm struggling. My fear for her is compromising my rationality.

"This place is cursed," Daniel gives voice to my intuition after dropping down beside me.

"She's not here," I mutter more to myself than to the demon beside me.

"I don't think she had any intention of staying," he adds.

I turn to face him. He'd struggled to keep up with me, and yet obediently searched every square inch of the town I'd requested of him.

"Head back to Birmingham. I'm going to search the outer towns."

He nods and prepares to take to the sky when the irregularity of the situation occurs to me.

"What is it, brother?" he asks, noting my cognizance.

"How is it you're able to withstand the proximity of this church?"

Demons can come within half a mile of hallowed ground for perhaps a second or two before they will inherently recoil from it, and yet Daniel stands beside me in perfect ease.

Half a smirk lights up on his face; at the same time a measure of him is also abashed.

"Three thousand years of building immunity," he admits. "It's the reason why Isabella's amulet had very little effect on me."

I gauge him closely for several seconds. All this time he could have attacked Bella—to guard his own immortality or by the will of the beasts—and yet chose not to. This demon is a definite oddity.

"You attend church?" I put to him cynically.

He nods once.

"You haven't given up on Him," I conclude.

"No," he answers quietly, his eyes fixed to the slate roof beneath our feet.

I snort disgusted, but I pity this poor fool. "You should. He has given up on you."

I launch myself into the sky; Daniel follows suit, immediately turning east, while I continue my search in the neighboring town of Glangwill, paying close attention to the main route in and out.

Nothing.

Bella appears to have vanished, and the more my search ends in vain, the more the sense of despair in me grows.

It is not conceivable that no one in all the towns that flank Carmarthen noticed her, an anxious young girl fleeing from those she perceived as a danger.

It is simply not possible.

And yet it appears to be so.

 **. . .**

Several hours later, Daniel contacts me from Birmingham. There is no sign of Bella, and none of the sisters have been in contact with her.

I instruct him to remain in the event she shows up, while I set my sights closer to this seemingly accursed town.

Retracting my wings, and despite my wild appearance, I walk through the town's square. People pass me, their eyes reluctantly rising from the ground to observe me, while registering with zero surprise.

 _Isabella Swan,_ I place into the thoughts of hundreds of them, along with a mental picture of her. _Where is she?_

It is met with blankness while some senselessly repeat my subliminal message; their voices devoid of emotion and expression.

I am at a loss. The town is in all retrospect dead, there is no life in it, and yet there is a definite purpose to it. One I am determined to uncover.

My first impression was that the town is overrun with demons. After all, this much negativity is usually synonymous with the presence of demons, but I have sensed none. Not a single beast. Nor have I detected their presence in the minds of the locals.

There can be only two possibilities. Either the demons once dwelled in this town, but no longer remain, or they have deliberately concealed themselves from me.

Still, I continue my search into the night and the following day, flying so low I run the very real risk of being seen, but I'm past caring. My fear for Bella's whereabouts is making me reckless as my frustration solidifies into increasing anger. The circumstance remains unchanged; there isn't a single trace of my human ever stepping foot in this town, nor the neighboring boroughs.

Ramuell and Tamiel keep their presence removed from me. They're not foolish enough to understand that I _will_ kill them without pause if they return without Bella. One of the three remaining demons, however, using methods I am forbidden to execute, is the one who uncovers the first piece of evidence.

Centuries ago I stopped wasting my time on heretic clerics. The hypocrites have damned themselves whether I cross their paths or not, and I take no offense in their duplicity.

Asbeel, however, takes their fall from grace personal.

He, like Ramuell and Daniel—and the demon with the human name, Jacob—is another unorthodox beast whose loyalty to our father has ensured his conscience has remained intact, and he regards any mockery against our father as unpardonable.

It is on the second night in this wretched town that I happen upon him torturing one of the town's clergy.

I had centered my search on the sewers and dank underground tunnels, when I happened upon him; his thoughts manic and enraged while the screeches of an unfortunate human almost drown his subconscious out.

"What is the manner of this?" I declare, after closing in on him in an intersection of the open-ended maze of sewer.

He has the middle-aged, balding priest by the throat, his face buried into the crook of the human's neck, quite evidently drinking his blood, while the priest remains stupefied in shock.

And a demon openly attacking a human can mean only one thing. The person, this _priest_ , has no guardian.

Asbeel's actions are not by chance; it is the first thing a demon will sense in humans; whether their soul is protected or marked for damnation. I, on the other hand, will sense the presence of the human's angel, or lack thereof, rather than feel the vibrations of their soul.

Immediately startled, Asbeel pulls back, and turns to me. Freshly spilled blood pours from his lips and over his chin as it seeps into his clothed chest.

Repulsed, I raise the sword to the demon's ear.

"This _parasite_ is a charlatan!" Asbeel growls, his very real anger causing his words to tremble with it, just as his mind opens; transmitting information in a flood back to me.

Unlike me, fallen angels cannot read the minds of humans. However, Asbeel has found a way around it. He drinks their blood, and through the medium of it, is able to detect their thoughts.

By way of the beast's mind, the panicked, jumbled ramblings of the human's subconscious are projected to me; along with it one name, whispered, _revered_. A closely guarded secret the human has been compelled to keep.

 _Abaddon._

Abbadon, one of the third who was cast out of heaven along with Lucifer; the _Morning Star_ himself!

On impulse, and with my heart seizing, I take a hasty step backward, before whipping the point of my blade to the human; whose been almost drained entirely of blood.

His bloodshot eyes flicker to mine; he sneers and erupts in glutted laughter. The act of it causes blood from the open wound Asbeel has inflicted on him to squirt over the beast, who clearly disgusted, shoves him to the shallow stagnant water beneath him.

"Filth!" Asbeel spits.

"Who do you follow!?" I demand of the human, despite the inception of his thoughts that have already been revealed to me.

But I am loathe to believe it.

I cannot.

Taking on a fallen Guardian or Watcher is one thing, but a member of the original fallen? Demons who were once among the Thrones, Dominations, Seraphim and Archangels, whose strength and status once rivalled Gabriel and Michael's?

As a rule, the original demons remain "out of sight". They don't tend to bother themselves with the trivialities of humans, and the fallen among my own age usually avoid them at all cost—lest they're forced into servitude.

In all my hundreds of years walking this planet, I have crossed paths with only a handful of them. And while they too noticed me, they took very little interest in me.

They're powerful, even on earth. By rights I am stronger, but these demons have retained many of their Heavenly gifts. Their wings are feathered like mine, though jet black like a ravens while they are known for being highly clairvoyant, telekinetic, and telepathic. Though the ability to read minds is limited to their own kind.

I am confident they cannot read my thoughts, nor any humans, but as for Ramuell and Daniel's et al., I cannot say for certain.

I know one thing, if they have foreseen my arrival, and have taken measures to cloak their presence, they're aware of my ability to read their minds.

And perhaps, too, whose sword I carry.

The priest only continues on with his derangement. It echoes repeatedly off the concrete excavation surrounding us, before he pauses, and deliberately taunts me.

" _Is-a-bell-a_."


	15. Chapter 14

**The Fallen**

 **Chapter 14**

Lunging forward, I grab the hypocrite priest by his blood smeared collar, drawing him roughly to me.

"WHERE IS SHE!?" I roar as my voice echoes repeatedly down the various network of tunnels.

The cleric only stares at me blankly, the crazed expression seemingly frozen on his face, as his eyes roll back into his head.

"Tell me, _priest_!" I lower the tone of my voice to a threatening whisper, my fingers squeezing around his throat, but it's futile; pointless. He's in evident hypovolemic shock, and is minutes from death. "Ben-zona!" I snap in Hebrew, calling the human a son of a whore, before driving the blade of Michael's sword through his mouth. Unlike the demons who've met their fate in the same manner, the priest does not erupt into flames. Rather his entire head melts around the blade; his skin and muscle liquefying like hot wax that emits a putrid gas. In fact, the scent of it is almost worse than the fumes of the demons, and repulsed, I release the sword and shove it away from me with my foot.

"Brother, if Abaddon has her..." Asbeel begins cautiously, redirecting my focus and leaving the implication open-ended.

"If he has her, he _dies_!" I promise, dragging my fingers roughly back through my hair in a fit of frustration. "Elohim yishmor!" I blaspheme the name of my father furiously, before turning my back on the demon and the already rotting corpse of the priest.

Unlike the beast, I don't need to drain humans dry of their blood to coerce information from them, and after leaving the decay of the sewers, I approach the first house of worship I come across. St Peter's Parish.

The structure itself is at least a millennia old, made from rubble stone with a tall square tower. And, like the rest of the town, there is a certain animus that appears to have infected the entire building.

It's the dead of night, and the parish is dark and seemingly deserted; bar two unintelligible minds that dwell within. I approach with a measure of caution; my senses quietly warning me to remain on guard.

The double pointed oak doors at the base of the tower are locked, but undeterred I kick them open; knocking one off its hinges. The interior is dim, aside from several lit candles burning from the altar's sanctuary, while the hushed voices from a moment ago have immediately muted. Their minds however aren't as reticent. They know who I am; they've been keeping close watch over me since I arrived, and I am, by every definition, unwelcome.

 _Come out, priest_ , I place the command in both their minds; one of whom is skulking behind the tabernacle, and the other in the locked sacristy.

They do not obey, and it isn't hard to ascertain why. The devils they serve have them completely compelled.

Relinquishing the blade of Michael's sword and tucking it back inside the waistband of my pants, I make my way slowly down the center aisle nave. The beast-worshipping simpleton who believes himself concealed on the altar is planning an attack on me.

Something he executes moments later.

Uttering some disjointed battle-cry, he runs at me wielding what appears to be a medieval boar spear. I pause and hold my ground, observing him. He's young, no older than his mid-thirties, and is dressed in the long black buttoned cassock of his clergymen. It causes him to stumble repeatedly, but undaunted, the fool continues his advance on me.

He gets no closer than five feet from me when I reach up and snatch the spear from him and grab him by the throat. Then bracing myself, I release my wings, and hurl the spear back toward the altar where it imbeds deeply into the lime-washed wall.

The hypocrite immediately gasps, his eyes so wide with fear it is almost comical.

I only continue to glare at him, and without speaking a word, I scan his thoughts. He too is compelled not to give up any information concerning the beasts, and if he knows anything of Bella I am unable to confirm it.

I can only conclude that he's no more than a slave, a drone, and convinced I will obtain nothing further from him, I release my grip from him and snap his head to the side; severing his vertebrae cleanly. Then, stepping over his now limp corpse, I head immediately to the small room off the altar where the second cleric cowers.

I find the balding, pot-bellied miscreant inside, flush against the furthest wall in a cold sweat. His eyes immediately flicker to my wings before they meet my gaze where he visibly shrinks.

"You have two options, _priest_. You tell me where Isabella is, or I kill you—slowly. Which is it!?" I bark out at him, causing him to openly flinch before he forcefully turns his gaze from me as if my presence causes him physical pain.

"If I tell you, my master will kill me," he discloses as his voice trembles, and I hope to God, my father, he doesn't expect me to take pity on him.

"Either way," I round on him, violently startling him, and grabbing him by gullet, hauling him three feet off the ground, " _you are going to die_."

"Please..." he strangles out, holding his hands up in surrender as if he has a choice.

" _Please_?" I echo his arrogance through gritted teeth, clenching my fingers tighter around his larynx. "You have defiled my father's house."

"I-I'm sorry. F-forgive me..." he utters feebly.

"If they have harmed her you _will be sorry, priest_ ," I threaten him, my voice dropping so gravely it becomes all but a growl.

He shakes his head in a jerking motion from side to side. "She is alive—I promise you."

" _Where_?" I demand, inching my face closer to his in direct warning.

The human squeezes his eyes closed, his expression riddled with torment; evidently deliberating over who will grant him a more grisly death. Me or his demon master.

"Un-under the c-canal," the coward eventually concedes in a stammer, before he starts wailing.

In disgust I release my grip, letting him drop to the floor, and turn and leave; deciding to keep to my word and leave him to the beasts.

He'd chosen wrong. I would have killed him, without hesitation, but in comparison to what no doubt awaits him, by my hand it at least would have been merciful.

 **. . .**

The moment I exit back through the main entrance and step onto the church grounds, I spot them. Though, it's evident it's their intention to be seen.

There's three of them; their coal black wings are fully exposed, despite the cloaks that cover their heads and bodies.

In an instant I whip out my brother's sword, directing it toward them, but I don't move.

Their eyes, incandescent in the pitch of the night, immediately fix steadfast to the blade, but are otherwise indecipherable. Much like their minds.

In fact, their minds are so silent I am uncertain whether they are aware of my telepathy and are deliberately blocking me, or if I am unable to read them altogether.

"Abaddon summons you," the center beasts speaks; his voice flat and insipid.

" _Summons me_?" I echo, infuriated by the devil's temerity before taking a deliberate step closer to them. "How about I just send you back to the _pit_ with your stinking _overlord_ where you belong?"

The demons hiss collectively and disband slowly in an obvious strategy to surround me.

"Kill us, and you will _never_ find her," one of them threatens me.

Faltering, I stare down the demon in an attempt to decipher something at all from him. This is when his minds suddenly opens, showing me an image of Bella. Of Bella behind iron bars in a dark, rotting-looking prison cell.

I freeze as the immediate impact it has on me all but steals the air from my lungs.

"Where is she?" I burst taking an unconscious step closer to him. My voice is strangled and I'm feeling increasingly volatile by the intensity of emotion that's converging on me.

From the demon's mind she appeared unharmed, but the stricken fear and anguish on her face...

The beast has the audacity to smirk despite the fact that he'd almost tripped over his feet in an attempt to maintain the distance between us.

Like all their kind, they fear Michael's sword more than they wish me to know.

"She's with us," the demon from behind me speaks, and spinning around, I point the tip of the blade to his face.

It leaves the beast in a moment of furor, causing the cloak over his mind to slip, only a fraction, but enough for me to comprehend his warning.

Abaddon's lair is indeed beneath the waterway that intersects this town. It's deep enough that it explains why I was unable to feel their vibration, while its confines are protected by a metaphysical force that can only be opened with an incantation. An incantation in the vapid, unintelligible language the beasts speak; which is essentially an archaic form of Latin spoken backwards. Nevertheless, to open the demon's crypt requires three of them collectively.

I turn to the beast who has remained silent, pointing the sword between his slit, blood red eyes. While he too is cloaking his thoughts from me, he's made it known to me that it is he who's the authority of the three of them.

"Lead!" I growl out my orders to him before turning to the other two and instructing them to follow suit.

The devils shuffle ahead of me in single file alongside each other while I follow cautiously behind. I'm not about to allow the beasts to lure me into Abaddon's lair alone, but while they're shielding their minds from me, I cannot properly calculate their strength and any advantages they might have over me.

This is when I mentally call to _my_ beasts; my five unwitting accomplices.

Ramuell and Tamiel arrive within moments, landing twenty or so feet to the right of me among the collection of time-eroded tombstones that litter the church graveyard. They're instantly aware of what they have happened upon, and yet they remain unwavering as they slowly approach me.

I haven't given either one of them the credit they deserve.

Asbeel arrives next, taking his position beside me, before Arakiel and Bezaliel. The latter two are less than willing, and while they join ranks around me with their brothers nonetheless, their minds betray their true emotions.

 _Get hold of yourselves_ , I order them mentally. _The demons can also read your minds._

This of course only increases their panic, and huffing impatiently to myself, I turn my back on them to face the three demons.

They've stopped some twenty feet ahead of us, three silent hooded figures that almost coalesce into the shadows of the night.

"Walk!" I instruct, holding out the sword in emphasis for them to again move.

They do so without another pause, seemingly nonplussed with the arrival of Ramuell's pack.

I follow with Ramuell and Tamiel beside me.

We walk no further than half a block, past rows of silent, indistinguishable townhouses, when the three demons pause and launch themselves into the air. I follow suit immediately, maintaining a safe distance while making sure my demon companions don't fall too far behind.

After no more than a half a mile the three beasts descend on the edge of the Towry River before a partially white-washed, stone building that was no doubt once a dock workers' cottage, but has since been transformed into a bar and restaurant.

" _Diablo's_ " is the name of it, advertised on a deep red banner—along with a trademarked winged beast—that hangs from the façade of the north wall.

I should have known.

" _Subtle_." I snort.

One of the beasts raises his head long enough for me to see the sly smirk on his lips, before he turns and enters through the open-gated bridged-walkway to the entrance.

There is nothing nefarious about the building; nothing to suggest it conceals the damned souls of old world demons. Inside it is designed to be warm and welcoming with rustic timber floors and a high, exposed-beamed ceiling.

In fact, it is so inconspicuous, it is the perfect camouflage to lure unsuspecting humans.

The demons lead the six of us through the restaurant to the kitchen. From there we enter a basement door and down a spiral iron staircase to a stone cellar. To the right we pass through a maze of rotting wine racks several layers deep, filled to the brim with grimy, dusty-looking bottles. At this point the beasts stop at what appears to be a dead end, before opening a concealed door in the masonry wall. What's beyond is a small room so brightly florescent it reveals the true essence of the demons for the first time.

The three of them are like apparitions with pale-grey skin so transparent it does little to conceal the network of raised, blackened veins running beneath.

The nature of their existence is so starkly divergent to the bodies they possess they don't even remotely pass as human. They appear little more than reanimated corpses, and yet they have retained the inherent allure of their inception. They are a paradigm of ghastly beauty and it is truly unnerving.

In fact, I am so disturbed I almost fail to recognize the elevator the ringleader opens.

The three of them enter, while I, and all five of my demon accomplices, remain motionless. For Ramuell and his pack their hesitance is derived from a shameless sense of their own preservation, but for me it's solely for Bella's.

I have lived thousands of years to get to this moment in time, and it is imperative that I keep my wits and a cool head to get her out of this. Because to lose her now would be a fate worse than death. An unbearable agony that I would not survive.

"Are you coming?" one of the demons urges me, holding out his hand.

Without a word I adhere to him, coming to a standstill beside the self-proclaimed leader of them as my beasts follow closely behind.

The elevator is large enough to fit at least fifty souls, while the walls are mirrored; making the space inside appear congested. I get the impression it's meant as an intimidation. It has no such desired effect on me, however.

Ramuell's beasts on the other hand... Their minds are flooding with panic.

In silence we descend into the bowels of the earth until we jolt to a stop at least several hundred feet deep when the doors once more slide open.

This is when it hits me, an almost literal wave of magnetism. It is a pull so profound I immediately recognize in it something I haven't felt in four thousand years.

 _Isobel._


	16. Chapter 15

**The Fallen**

 **Chapter 15**

It's Bella. I know this instinctively. She's calling to me, but it isn't her voice I am sensing. It's the very essence of her soul.

My senses are immediately heightened to the point they are overrun, and on impulse I grab at my chest and turn the blade of the sword on the three beasts with a shaking hand.

"Know this," the words strangle from my lips over the deluge of emotion coursing through me, "if your _demon master_ has harmed a single hair on her head, I will not rest until you _are all_ reduced to ash—do you understand me?"

In silence they stare at me, their crimson eyes locked to mine seemingly gauging the sincerity of my threat. And I hope to Elohim they decide to call my bluff.

The leader nods his head only once, his expression almost impassive but for the slight sneer pulling on his lips.

I whip the blade directly to him, my tremoring hand causing it jolt back and forth from each of the beast's ears. "Do _not_ tempt me, _swine_!" I warn him in a harsh whisper.

"You are in no position to issue threats, _Edward_ ," the demon mocks me, and in that one moment my fear turns to blind rage, and I lunge at him, grabbing him about the throat with the blade to his jugular in less than a second.

For a period no words pass between us as the demon holds my gaze in direct challenge before he puts a voice to it. "Do it, and you'll never see her again," he taunts me, then straightening himself out, he shoves me back from him.

He has strength enough to put a small amount of distance between us, but in doing so he reveals the extent of his physical power. He is not stronger than me by half, and I suspect this is the reason why his two brethren did not attempt to intervene.

"Kill us both and we will be reborn, but you _won't be_ ," I remind him to which he openly laughs.

"You might, perhaps," he deliberately alludes with a derisive grin that makes the blood in my veins run cold.

My heart stalls within my chest, and I struggle to prevent my expression from relaying my sudden panic.

" _What have you done to her_?" I demand, my tone so grave and trembling it is barely audible.

There is only one reason why Bella would cease to reincarnate, and it is a fate I cannot conceive.

The beast scoffs at me bitterly, and without a word, turns his back on me where the trio of them exist the elevator.

For the first time in my existence I feel physically ill as my thoughts race to find contradiction in the demon's meaning, but I cannot.

Every muscle within my body burns to strike the fiends down. In fact, it's a desire that appears stemmed from a complete lack of reason. I know I need them to get me into the beast's lair, but it is still a hunger I fight to control. And as if Ramuell is able to decipher my thoughts, he brings his hand down on my shoulder; causing me to pause.

"Not yet, Dashiel," he speaks quietly.

I only shake my head; I can feel Bella all around me, more acutely than all the hours I'd spent in her company. It's an affinity I have not felt since I was her guardian. At the same time a sense of foreboding is eroding my rationality, and I am unsure if I will be able to control myself if I am faced with the reality that is beginning to whisper to my subconscious.

 _They aren't stronger than we are, brother_ , Asbeel's thoughts project to me. _We will rescue her._

With my back to him, I nod stiffly in recognition that I have heard him, as I follow the beasts out of the elevator and into a narrow, darkened, stone, crypt-like room. I have every intention of taking her from this place, but in what condition I cannot say for certain.

"Brace yourself, brother," Ramuell warns me, just as the three beasts begin their incantation.

The sacrilege of it throws me off balance. I clamp my hands tightly to my ears, feeling as if the devilry they're conjuring is clawing its way out of my brain. Then, just when I'm certain my head will implode from the heresy of it, it stops.

I attempt to regain my breath, almost vomiting back up the implicit darkness the black magic that protects Abaddon's lair has momentarily infected me with. Ramuell drags me to my feet while I struggle for several seconds to regain my composure.

"Parasites," I utter in disgust as Ramuell drags me further into the now accessible catacombs to the pit of the demon's lair.

The further we walk, the more the darkness encloses in on us, until the only light breaking up the pitch blackness is from the glow of several burning torches that are braced on the curved walls. And it's hot. So suffocatingly hot, I worry how Bella is handling it. It's oppressive even for me, and I can usually handle most extremes of weather without any kind of adversity.

After at least several hundred feet of passageway, it opens to a large antechamber that branches off into several more rooms. It reminds me of the inside of an Egyptian burial chamber. It's lined with stone and several sarcophagi are strewn throughout the room; only on the covers are various depictions of devils instead of kings and queens of the Nile.

To the left we pass through a doorway into a long hall that appears to be some kind of Hell's nightclub. Scores of beasts lounge about in the booth seating, or at one of the several bars, dressed in the same dark cloaks as the three who lead us. Some have their expansive black wings released, but most don't, while strobe lighting in streaks of blood red dissects the room into multiple fragments, giving it a nightmarish ambience.

There are several humans among the demons; humans that are coveted closely by the beasts. Muted and subdued, these dull-eyed humans sit dazed and vacuous as the fiends defile them in every possible way imaginable.

"Monstrous," Ramuell murmurs from beside me, the tremor to his voice reinforcing his aversion.

I tense, squeezing my grip on the hilt of Michael's sword as I scan the room, seeing only Bella in these wretched humans. Their minds are clouded and blank, evidence enough that their souls are marked for eternal damnation.

For the most part the beasts pay us no attention. Though, several that we pass close by stop and stare at the blue flame of the sword I clutch; their insipid eyes giving way to immediate alarm.

I glare at each of them, meeting their gaze with my warning unmistakable. I will gut this entire godforsaken tomb and every beast that dwells within if any harm has come to Isabella.

And God help me, I will relish in it.

The demons live like insects; their lair expanding in various networks similar to an ant's nest—or a sewerage system. We pass through one passageway after another that bleeds into several more chambers, until finally we come to a set of arched crypt doors framed by several layers of stone column. They could have belonged to any number of dark-aged churches, only carved into the wooden doors is the trademark horned goat's head.

The appointed beast knocks, before he opens the doors and holds them open for me and my demons; allowing all five of them to enter behind me.

Here is where I come face to face with Abaddon.

He sits in a tall, gothic chesterfield chair, dressed in a black pinstriped suit. His hair is long and black and he wears it untied and free.

Like the rest of the tomb, the beast's chamber is illuminated by the eerie glow of red lighting, only it's so concentrated, the entire room, as well as the Abaddon himself, appears to be awash with blood.

His mind is silent and there is seemingly no way to penetrate it unless he allows me to.

Without a word he motions for me to sit in the single timber chair that appears so incongruous to the rest of the room's adornments that I assume it's been set out especially for me.

"I'll stand," I assert.

"As you wish," he replies in a smooth, fluid voice as he waves his palm over the arm of his chair. The action opens three doors to his left, where five coal-winged beasts enter and stand obediently along the wall.

His bodyguards.

"Let's begin," he speaks as if the manner that brought us together is a pleasant one.

"There is nothing to _begin_ ," I retort through clenched teeth. "Either you return my human to me, or I will cut your stinking heart out and have it blessed by the _good pontiff_ himself."

To my surprise the fiend openly laughs, not appearing concerned by my threats by any measure. "Your love for this human has made you reckless, and it is exactly as I had hoped."

I whip Michael's sword between the swine's eyes, holding it pointed at him as anger simmers along by body of flesh.

The devil doesn't even flinch.

"I am not playing with you, _beast_!" I threaten him, but my emotions only disclose the magnitude of my desperation.

"I don't doubt you are, _Dashiel the chosen one_ ," he sneers.

I falter briefly before hastily collecting myself. "What... is your meaning?"

He ignores me, but as his calculated eyes continue to bore into mine, his expression suddenly hardens. " _Yes_ , you who wields _Michael's_ sword could strike us all down where we stand, but then your _Isabella_ would be forever lost to you. So cease with the pride, you _bastard half-breed_."

"What do you want with me!?" I demand, continuing to point the blade to the center of his forehead.

He breaks into a small smile, appearing full of self-assurance. "I want you to release Azazel, and only then will I give you your human back, unharmed."

Azazel?

I pause. Azazel was the first of the watchers to fall, and was consequently imprisoned as a scapegoat to his fallen brothers by Raphael. Biblically his incarceration is in the arid deserts of Dudael. Dudael which in Hebrew means "place of fire". The present day location is said to be somewhere in the Negev Desert in Israel.

I snort full of scorn. "How about I just kill you now and take her myself?"

He smiles again, bringing his forefingers together beneath his chin. "If you do that who will return her soul?"

I immediately freeze before taking a clumsy step closer to the beast, raising the sword to sever his head. " _You lie_!"

In response, his guards jump forward, but Abaddon only waves at them to still as he once more laughs, unfettered by the volatility of my actions. "Do I?"

"She would never give it to you!" I insist, beginning to sound as irrational as both my anger and fear are making me feel.

"No, she wouldn't, but for you..." he leaves the implication unfinished as he meticulously pulls a feather from his suit pocket; spinning it slowly in his fingers in emphasis.

I recognize it immediately. It's one of mine; the very same base feather I gave Bella the last time I seen her.

I shake my head, unsure where the beast is leading me. "You cannot trick a human into giving up their soul. They have to do it willingly," I remind him, my panic increasing as I slowly succumb to realization.

"Oh, she gave it up willingly." He smiles again, brushing my feather beneath his nose and inhaling the scent of it in.

I shake my head again, forcefully this time and insistent, steadfastly refusing to conceive of such an idea even as my heart stutters in absolute dread. "She w-wouldn't," I stammer, but my conviction is waning with each passing breath.

"Oh, but she _would_ , Edward," the fiend continues to taunt me while my fingers itch to once more strike him down.

"How?" I burst, struggling to rein in my emotion. I am beginning to literally quake with rage, but more so with increasing despair.

For the second time, the demon waves his palm over whatever sensor device is attached to the arm of his chair. Another door to my right opens and a sixth beast enters the room and moves to stand beside him.

This beast, like the three that delivered me, is wearing a dark cloak that falls to his feet. His gaze meticulously passes over us, on Ramuell and his pack first, before it rests on me; this is when something flickers in his eyes, and a cunning smile spreads across his face.

"Aznoch, if you will," Abaddon speaks, deliberately holding out my feather to the beast.

This demon, Aznoch, takes it from him even as his eyes remain steeled to mine. His smirk broadens and before my very eyes he transforms. His wings immediately lighten, his blood-strewn eyes steadily turn green, as his entire face morphs into my own. The _mirror image_ of my own.

He's a shape-shifter I realize as my heart plummets.

"Sorcery!" I utter, my voice almost failing me. "You _filthy beasts_ deceived her!"

"Nevertheless—" Abaddon begins, but a momentum of vengeance has already begun within me.

In the next instant, I advance upon the shapeshifting beast, driving the sword between his ribcage while he festers in my own image. His body immediately begins to spark before he erupts into burning ash so noxious the reeking stench of it causes me to recoil backward for several steps. But not before I turn my attention to Abaddon.

From behind me Ramuell and his beasts battle the demon's guard, but I pay them no regard; my eyes are locked to Abaddon who had the fatal daring to play with Isabella's immortal soul.

He only remains sitting in his chair, appearing to be enjoying the scene unfolding before him. Incensed by his arrogance, I grab him by his hair, slamming him against the wall in the same movement. This is when the swine begins to chant.

Immediately, the same agonizing pain begins to grate from the inside of my skull, debilitating me instantly. Locked frozen in place and unable to react, I stumble to my knees where the beast grabs me by the back of my neck, bringing me closely to him.

"Be very careful, Dashiel," he speaks lowly to me, his mind opening as he continues to relay the demonic mantra to me mentally.

"I... will... cut your... _heart_... out," I choke past the consuming pain his necromancy has afflicted on me. Then squeezing my eyes shut in an effort to suppress the torment, I gather my strength and shove the beast from me before turning his strategy against him. " _Adonai Ro'i lo echsar. Binot deshe yarbitzeini. AL-MEI MENUCHOT YENAHALEINI_!" I begin reciting Psalm 23 in Hebrew, as the demon violently lunges away from me, clamping his hands to his ears.

Placing the blade of Michael's sword to his jaw, I force him back to his feet. "You will bring me Isabella this instant, _beast_!" I order him in a primal utterance, struggling to hold onto the restraint not to kill him.

He appears to call my bluff, and without hesitation I drag the simmering point of the blade across his face and over his nose.

He hisses, and whips himself into a full circle; producing a scythe-like blade and swinging it in a maneuver of defense against the Michael's blade.

"We can do this all day, Dashiel," he says calmly, standing to his full height and holding the scythe out in an offensive position, "but I must tell you that dear Isabella is not coping very well with the damnation of her soul."

Feeling myself succumb to increasing irrationality, I charge at him again, but this time in anticipation he blocks my strike with his weapon.

"GIVE HER BACK TO ME!" I yell manically. I have every intention of battling the beast until he is ash, but not without removing Bella from this hell-pit first.

"Belloch," he speaks, his eyes darting behind me to one of his guards in a fraction of a second before back to me. "Bring the girl."

I glance quickly over my shoulder. Ramuell and his pack are defeated, kneeling against the back wall of the entrance as thick black blood oozes from multiple wounds over their bodies.

 _I'm sorry, brother,_ Ramuell mentally projects to me, while the rest of them seemingly ashamed, stare steadfast to the ground beneath them.

But then what did I expect? They were never match for the beast's guard and yet it didn't stop them.

I turn back to Abaddon and hold his steeled gaze steady. His mind is once more closed to me, but back is his pretense of self-assurance.

"This is nothing more than a business deal, Dashiel," he speaks up, breaking the silence between us.

"Rest assured, beast, I am going to gut you like a stuck pig," I warn him, refusing to be placated by his charm.

He laughs again with a measure of sarcasm. "I am sure you will."

Without the need to read his mind, the cause behind his confidence is evident. He believes himself well protected from me and any designs I might have in coming back to exact revenge, and for the most part he's right, but it still won't stop me. If Bella's soul _is_ locked in to his contract I _will_ kill him.

The second door to the right opens and Bella is led into the chamber. She is blind-folded, her hands tied behind her back, but the moment she enters, her head snaps up and her breath drawing audibly in.

"Edward?" she cries, her voice is hoarse and broken.

Acting on impulse alone, I take two steps toward her and immediately scoop her up in my arms.

"I'm here, my love," I blurt, feeling for a single moment as if my heart is going to fragment.

Carefully, I pull the restraints from her hands and tear the blindfold from her face, and the moment she's free she wraps her arms around my neck and bursts into tears. This is when I kiss her.

I kiss her without conscious decision and with complete abandonment, despite the watchful presence of the demons. I kiss her lips, her cheeks—every point on her delicate face with a yearning that is suddenly besetting me. I am fast beginning to feel out of control, while fearing that this rush of emotion and desire is already beyond me.

"I knew you would come," she sobs, kissing me back with the same unrestraint.

"Of course I would come," I reassure her, squeezing her tighter against my chest.

"They took my necklace, Edward," she confesses, and that's when I understand.

Without her amulet she is not only defenseless against the beasts, but also against me.

Michael gave her the blessed gemstone knowing she would need as much protection from me as she did the demons. He was protecting her from me and the almost uncontrollable desire he knew I would unwittingly harbor for her.

A desire that appears inherent to my very soul.


	17. Chapter 16

**The Fallen**

 **Chapter 16**

Cradling Bella against my chest with one hand, I point the blade of my sword at Abaddon with the other.

The fiend is once more sitting in his chair, his leg's crossed, with full knowledge that he's in complete control.

"You will release her soul—now, _swine_!" I demand, all the while knowing my request is futile.

And as expected he snorts. "Are you so naïve, Dashiel? Surely you realize a contract has been signed."

"I'm sorry, Edward," Bella whispers against my skin. Her small body is trembling, but more than that, she is burning hot with fever. "I thought he was you," she explains the shape-shifting beast's deception.

"I know, sweetheart. Don't worry yourself," I murmur to her, as my eyes penetrate back to the beasts. "Show me!"

From the inside of his breast pocket, Abaddon pulls out a folded piece of parchment and holds it out casually for me to inspect.

Releasing my arm from around Bella, I snatch it from him and clumsily unfold it.

It is the standard contract to relinquish one's soul written in the beast's blood, and signed by Bella in hers, and on the bottom is a clause. Her soul will be returned to her upon the release of Azazel.

Fuming and flooding with despair, I crush the paper in my grip as my head snaps up to meet the demon's gaze. "How do you expect me to release Azazel? Raphael guards him!"

"And you guard one of his brother's swords," he points out, his head tilting in emphasis to Michael's blade.

"I cannot kill an archangel," I remind him through clenched teeth.

"I am not asking you to kill one," he replies smugly.

"What makes you think I have the power to release the beast?"

"He can only be released by an angel, and you my dear brother, are still that," he answers, the smile not waning from his lips, and it takes almost all my self-control not to strike his head from his shoulders.

"Michael will not allow it. He will kill me first!"

The beast shrugs slowly, meticulously, raising his hands with it. "Then your pet will join you not long after."

An utterance infused with anger and frustration bursts from me, and I squeeze my palm around Michael's sword, pointing it to the center of the beast's forehead as I all but convulse with it. "You will be reduced to ash before that ever happens!"

He laughs silently this time and shakes his head. "First thing's first, Dashiel, and I'm afraid you don't have time on your hands."

"What is your meaning?" I demand, all the while knowing the answer is cocooned weakly against me in my arms, her breath shallow and overrun with the scourge of fever.

"Most humans can survive, perhaps, two or three years with a damned soul, but poor Isabella will be lucky to last a month, I fear." He mocks me with fabricated concern.

I brace myself against the almost irresistible urge to charge at him, shuddering as I struggle to contain myself. "What do you want with Azazel?"

"Azazel is of great importance," Abaddon divulges before snorting his breath through his nose derisively. "Do you really believe he was imprisoned to set an example to his fellow kind?" And with that he laughs again.

I calculate the beast for a moment, scanning his thoughts for a sliver of information that I can use to my advantage, but he doesn't give up a whisper.

"If you cross me, beast, I _will_ hunt you down," I promise him, and I'm deadly serious. I will.

"I believe you will," he replies, appearing somewhat sedate for a moment. "I have no intention of being at the receiving end of _Prince Michael's_ blade"—his tone twists with contempt—"so rest assured, Dashiel, release Azazel and I will release her."

I stare him down one last time, attempting to ascertain any form of contradiction in the beast's words, but I cannot.

"I'm taking her with me," I inform him, lifting Bella off the ground and into my arms.

He waves his hand at me as if it is no concern of his. "Take her."

Turning my back on him, I motion to Ramuell that we're leaving. He pulls himself to his feet, nodding to his pack to follow suit.

Once outside Abaddon's chamber, the same beast who led us in is waiting. Without a word he directs us out, taking us through a shorter route that by-passes the scores of demons we'd encountered on the way in.

He leaves us at the elevator that will take us up to the basement level of Diablo's, and in silence the seven of us ascend. It isn't until we're completely free of the beast's lair and out of the restaurant into the cool night air that I break it.

Placing Bella carefully to her feet, I drop to my knees, grabbing fistfuls of the damp turf beneath me in my tense and straining grip, as I roar out into the stillness of the night. My voice echoes throughout the town, repeatedly, the anguish and despair that overruns it unmistakable; even to my own ears.

I am fully aware that I have little chance of freeing Azazel, while the demon's contract—that Bella has willingly entered into—is binding and final.

If I fail the demons will drag her to hell, and that is something under Heaven and Earth I refuse to allow. Her soul, her very existence falls to me to deliver her from the grip of damnation.

While Raphael isn't a warrior like Michael, he is still an archangel, one of the four highest ranking archangels whose strength is three times my own. Possibly more. Even wielding Michael's sword the odds of me actually defeating him to set Azazel free are slim.

But I must. I have no other choice, and failure is not an option.

"Edward," Bella whispers weakly, throwing her small body over me and curling her arms around my neck even as my hands remain clutching at the earth, imbedded deeply. "I'm so sorry."

Her voice snaps me instantly out of the suspension of grief, and I pull her too oughly back into my arms. "I don't want you to worry, my love. I'm going to fix this," I promise her.

She nods, even as her head drops feebly to my shoulder.

Cupping my hands to both sides of her face, I angle her so I can properly see her eyes. They roll back almost instantly, and she struggles to reopen them.

"She's sick, brother," Ramuell speaks sedately from behind me.

I nod as realization descends over me.

She's more than sick; she's dying. The darkness afflicted on her soul is already compromising her. She's weakening rapidly beneath it.

I fully understand the implications behind it, but it's a revelation that causes my heart to ache, and even as I fight to prevent it and keep myself under control, I feel my expression crumble again in despair.

Abaddon was right. A human can live several months to years with an accursed soul, but Bella's anointed and souls like hers tend to fade swiftly. It's evident now that she does not have a month of life left within her. In fact, I'm gravely concerned that she doesn't have a week.

Gathering her in my arms I pull myself to my feet. I know what I must do, but first I need to help her, to extend her life for as long as possible. While Bella's under a spiritual battle, the effects of it are physical. And there is only one person on this planet who knows more about healing the human body than I do.

My father.

I turn to Ramuell.

"We're going to the United States. Go and find as many blankets as you can," I instruct him and his beasts, and dutifully they obey.

Next, I pull my phone from the front pocket of my hopelessly torn jeans and call Daniel. He answers immediately.

"Brother, I need you to bring Bella's amulet to my father's house. Do not delay," I instruct him, my tone emphasizing the dire situation without the need to explain.

"I have it on me. I'm leaving now," he replies before the line is disconnected.

If I'm carrying Bella I'll have to fly below a certain altitude where the air won't be too thin for her to breathe. I cannot risk her getting altitude sickness; it would kill her. Inevitably the journey will take longer. A lot longer, and I'm anxious to get her to my father.

Several moments later the beasts return carrying a mix of blankets and coverings that I use to wrap Bella in. Then lifting her securely in my arms and holding her close to my chest, I rise into the air, remaining at around five-thousand feet as I head west for the close to four thousand mile journey.

I arrive a couple of hours before dawn, well ahead of Ramuell's pack. I could not wait for them, or travel at their limited speed, and so making sure they were aware of the final destination I went on ahead of them.

My parents' house, the home I grew up in in this life, in Hartford Connecticut is as unchanged as it was the day I left. The white paneled walls of the Georgian architecture remain unblemished and stark in comparison to the navy blue shutters that frame the windows, while the lawn and gardens are just as meticulously kept.

Not a single light is illuminated from inside the house; which means no emergency has taken my father to the hospital. My mother does not sleep during these instances, and will patiently wait for his return with both her bedroom and the porch light lit. I've lost count of the amount of times I watched the sun rise with her over hot cocoa as we waited together for my father to return home.

I land clumsily in the backyard, almost tripping over the patio furniture as I make my way immediately, with Bella now limp in my arms, to the back entrance.

Out of habit and a growing lack of rationality, I kick over several potted plants looking for the spare key, before I catch myself. In the next instant, and using Michael's blade, I shatter a panel of the glass sliding doors and enter the kitchen.

Almost immediately the alarm is tripped, and in the next moment, I catch the voices of two minds above me, as one descends the stairs toward us.

I leave my wings released. There will be questions, and my wings will be answer enough. It will no doubt also explain the demonic oppression that currently lays waste to the ambience of my parents' home. It hangs densely in the air; though I detected it long before I walked over the threshold.

My father scrambles into the kitchen; his expression is full of alarm that overshadows the recent shroud of sleep as he hastily flicks on the lights. He's carrying a baseball bat—my baseball bat, I realize—held high, when his eyes meet mine.

He pulls up short and comes to a skidding halt as his entire expression smooths out in shock. His mouth opens and closes in silence, while his eyes flicker to my wings then back to me, repeatedly, and through them I see what he sees. His believed-to-be-dead son looking wild and coated in filth, with two towering grey wings sprouting above him.

"Dad, it's me," I address him, finding myself almost as equally overcome upon seeing him again.

"E-Edward...?" he utters in a stunned kind of awe, his voice barely audible as his eyes slowly well with tears. "Edward—good god, son!"

He takes several steps toward me when he stops, appearing to second guess himself. This is when I act, laying Bella down on the kitchen counter and gently unwrapping her.

"Dad, there's no time. I need your help," I implore him.

Beneath the several layers of wool Bella is an open flame. She's barely conscious and covered head to toe in sweat that has plastered her hair and clothes to her small body.

"What is the matter with her?" he asks, his coherence snapping back into place at the prospect of an ailing patient.

"She's under spiritual warfare, and it's killing her. I need you to give her as much time as you can," I explain to him straight, and when I turn to him, his eyes are not engaged with me, or Bella, but again on my wings.

With a quick sigh I withdraw them, causing my father to immediately jump in surprise, and almost fall over backwards.

"Dad, _please_ ," I appeal to him.

"Were you always aware of this, son?" His question is serious, and heeded in disbelief.

"Yes. Dad, listen to me. I don't have a mutated gene, or a chromosomal abnormality. I'm half angel, half human. I've always known. _Always._ Now, _please_ help her," I answer, preempting the scientific theories he's beginning to formulate in his mind to explain away what stands before him.

After a short pause, he nods his head. "Okay, give me a moment to get my bag."

I watch him disappear up the back staircase, returning seconds later, wearing his glasses and carrying his Tuscan Leather Gladstone bag. The very same one Mom and I had bought him for his fiftieth birthday.

After clipping it open, he removes his stethoscope and places it to Bella's chest, holding her wrist with his free hand. "What did you say had happened to her?" he asks again, his attention now firmly focused on her.

"She sold her soul," I explain, knowing in my father's mind how it will be received.

Pausing, he turns slowly to meet my gaze. "Her soul, did you say?" There is a continued measure of disbelief in his tone; though, not nearly as much as I was expecting.

"Her, soul, yes. Look, I know how this sounds," I attempt to explain, "but just please trust me."

" _Edward_!" the abrupt, shrill sound of my mother's voice suddenly tears my attention from my father.

I turn to her, meeting her clear blue eyes and flashing her a warm smile that is seeped with more pain and vulnerability than I was anticipating.

"Edward," she repeats as a sob erupts from her throat and her hand rises to cover her mouth. "Edward—oh my god."

I am instantly thrown forward as my wings once more begin their painstaking exit through my flesh. Taking a stiff breath, and fighting to remain on my feet, I turn to my mother who appears suspended for a brief moment in shock, before releasing my wings in full.

"Hi, Mom."


	18. Chapter 17

**The Fallen**

 **Chapter 17**

It is almost nightfall by the time Ramuell and his pack arrive. By this point I have filled my parents in on enough of my history that the sight of five demons sitting in their living room with their half-breed son is no longer too much of a shock to them.

My mother, always the gracious host, offers them coffee and sandwiches, and the beasts wolf them down as though they haven't eaten in centuries. They are polite and courteous to my parents, but their thoughts are overrun with the reality that soon awaits me; keeping them constantly on edge.

They're unaware of it yet, but I have no intention of taking them with me. Facing Raphael to free Azazel is _my_ battle alone.

My father has Bella stabilized, intravenously feeding her saline solution and large doses of anti-biotics and administering her oxygen. On arrival she was close to unconsciousness and unresponsive, but after only an hour, her fever broke, and her lethargy followed soon after.

He'd taken her bloodwork not long after arriving, and had the results expressed through to his in-home office computer. Bella's immunoglobulin, or infection fighting proteins, are abnormally elevated, as is her white blood count, while her blood pressure is low, and together with her presenting symptoms, my father is convinced she's suffering from some kind of sepsis.

He wanted to perform more in-depth diagnostic testing for cancer, and other such immunodeficiency diseases, but after assuring him repeatedly that what Bella is afflicted with cannot be found in medical journals, he reluctantly relented.

Despite this he assures me that what she is suffering with is not yet endangering her life. Her heart, although considered "tachy" is not in arrhythmia, nor showing any other signs of failure, while her lung function and circulation appears normal.

I detest the clinical way my father speaks of her, but then I detest the very humanness of her suffering. To me Bella's physical body is secondary to who she really is. Who I first fell in love with when I was within my body of light. Though, the intense physical desire I feel for her now is undeniable, and I'm anxious for Daniel to arrive with her amulet; and not solely just to protect her from the beasts.

Though, while Bella's soul is suspended, hanging in the balance, her death will present them with no power. Abaddon has reserved it for himself in the event I cannot free Azazel and she dies. So, while the demons now pose no real danger to her, I on the other hand, do.

While every cell in her body calls to me, draws me in, I am unable to think straight nor rationally. My fierce protection for her remains steadfast, but I am unable to rid my thoughts of the very act of physical intimacy that I have been forbidden to enact in four millennia of living.

God help me, I want that basis of humanity with her, and with a hunger I can barely conceive.

She's resting in my old bedroom, despite insisting rather stubbornly that she's fine, and until Daniel arrives, I refuse to leave her side. I've been encouraging her to sleep, but she's resisting. The few times she has slept, she woke screaming out my name in a cold sweat. She's fully aware of the campaign I need to wage in order to save her soul, and her fear is reserved solely for me. She was more lucid and had understood the conversation I'd had with Abaddon than I had anticipated.

The last time she slept, she'd woken only minutes after, and had promptly screamed so loudly she'd startled even the beasts downstairs.

My father is fascinated by them, and at present he has all five of the demons locked in his den as they enlighten him in regards to twelve thousand years of theology.

"Promise you won't leave me, Edward," Bella pleads with me repeatedly with that one request. She clings to me, her fists clamped tightly around the material of my shirt; refusing to let me go.

I can see it in her eyes; she's aware that any promise I give her will be an empty one, or an outright lie, so I say nothing. Instead, I press my lips to her temple, leaving them against her, until I am forced to once again pull back.

I am lying in bed with her as her small, overtly warm body, tangles with my own. She didn't need to entrap me into this closeness with her this time; my actions are entirely my own and deliberate. My father had ordered her stripped down to her underwear on her arrival to bring her fever down, and after, I'd put one of my old college t-shirts on her. It swims on her, and I was unprepared by how unimaginably appealing she appears in it.

"It's strange being in your bedroom," she whispers. "It is so... _ordinary_ , and yet you are everything _but_ ordinary."

I turn to face her, burying my nose against her hair as I answer, "I am everything you need me to be, Bella. My _only_ reason for existing was to find you."

She inhales a wavering breath, and allows her brow to graze against mine. "Edward..." she utters a broken sob as the tears welling in her eyes spill over. "The archangels are going to kill you, aren't they?" And before I can answer her, and put her fears to rest, she continues. "You can't die because of me—you _can't_!"

Immediately pulling back, I cup my palm to her face.

"Listen to me, I am _not_ going to die," I assure her fervidly even as my voice catches over my blatant dishonesty.

Because in all probability, I _will_ die. But to allow myself to believe that, is to accept that Bella will also die, and by the blood of the Messiah Himself, I _cannot_ allow that to happen. Even if it means slaying every archangel in existence, Michael included.

"You play the piano?" she changes the subject; though, it's more of a statement after observing the keyboard that aligns the east side of my bedroom.

"I do," I reply.

"You never told me. In fact, you never told me you had parents." Her voice is almost light.

"I told you I was born, remember?" I remind her. "You asked me why I have no belly button."

Taking a breath, she hums it softly. "Play me something?"

"Okay," I almost immediately agree, because while I could remain lying with her half naked body pressed to mine indefinitely, it's not exactly prudent, right now. Not while she's without her amulet. "Anything in particular you want me to play?"

"Requiem for a Dream," she answers breaking into a small smile.

"Requiem for a Dream..." I echo. "Wouldn't you prefer me to play something more _cheerful_?"

Her smile twitches broader and more to herself. "No, Requiem for a Dream is like you. It's all intense, and serious, and angry."

I laugh softly only half beneath my breath. "How is it you can read me so easily, and I cannot read you at all?"

Her smile slowly fades and she leans her head momentarily against my shoulder. Despite all her assurances she's tired. She's _exhausted_.

"Okay," I repeat in a murmur, planting my lips to the side of her head briefly, and pulling myself carefully out from under her.

My skin is literally charged by the sensation of hers, and I really need to do whatever's necessary to distract myself from it.

I sit down at the keyboard realizing I cannot recall the last time I played it. I often played the Steinway grand piano in my parent's living room, but not so much the portable Yamaha in my bedroom. I enjoy playing the piano, I always have, but it always felt like a mockery. A mockery that I could create something so beautiful when my very existence was so dismal.

I play her an extended version of the Requiem for a Dream cover. I don't have the score for it, but it's not as if I need it. Most of what I play is by ear, and when I'm finished with the hypnotizing, volatile symphony, I glance over my shoulder at Bella, raising my brows.

Her mouth is open, her expression seemingly frozen, as she shakes her head to herself. "Are you sure you weren't Mozart in one of your lives?"

I smile shortly to myself and turn back to the keyboard.

"Positive. I haven't been born in central Europe in 400 years," I reply, before I begin playing "Beauty and the Beast". It's Bella's favorite movie, and something I watched with her twice in her bedroom at the convent. Not the animated version, but the most recent live action adaptation where I closed my eyes and heard Bella's voice through the character who played Belle.

Though, my "Beauty" is an age more beautiful.

Lastly, I play "In the Arms of an Angel" because it's her favorite song, and because more than any other time in the continuation of my godforsaken existence, she needs me.

She needs a guardian angel who won't fail her, and she needs the God who's remained silent and detached from me for four thousand years to deliver her from this. The God who allowed her to be slain repeatedly before she could take her first breath; the God who committed her to an eternity of human existence, unprotected without me.

The God who condemned her to all of it because of the criminal actions of His son.

I am unsure how I expect Bella to put her faith in a God who has been as removed from her as He has from me; though, in His absence, I am fully prepared to sacrifice myself to an eternity of Hell and torment for her.

Just as she was willing to do the same for me.

When my fingers finally come to a rest over the keys, I once more turn back to gauge her response. This time tears are pouring down her cheeks.

Again she shakes her head, in awe or disbelieve I'm unsure; it's still so hard to read her. "You're so amazing, Edward."

Getting to my feet, I go to her, dropping to my knees at the side of the bed and grabbing her hands. "Isabella, I need you to promise me something," I appeal to her as my voice catches. I can feel Daniel approaching. He brings with him the mantel that will partially close my heart and subdue my desire for her. Downstairs Ramuell and the beasts can feel it, as well. They'll have to leave soon. The power within the amulet will force them to retreat.

Bella only nods, her eyes wide and searching.

"I need you to fight. Do not let it beat you, my love. Hang on for as long as you can," I emphasize the absolute importance of it, my gaze locked intently to hers.

She shakes her head as sudden fear widens her eyes further. She understands what I have asked her. " _No_ , Edward!" she whispers as fresh tears well in her eyes. " _Please_ —there has to be another way," she pleads with me, her voice so beset by grief my heart clenches in response.

I place my palm to her cheek. She's so frail. Humans are so utterly breakable, I wonder how my father could have made them so vulnerable and then consequently watched them for an eternity become sick and die. How did the continual heartbreak not drive him completely insane?

"There isn't, sweetheart, so I need you to be strong. _Promise me_ ," I stress, feeling my emotions begin to mirror hers, but I am her guardian angel. I cannot allow her to see me in so much despair.

She bursts into tears even as she nods her head in compliance. "I promise," she whispers.

Bending forward, I plant my lips to her forehead, before as if I am acting outside of my consciousness, I place them to her lips.

I fully understand now why humans are so fond of kissing, because the feel of Bella's soft lips partially parted and merged with mine is so unfathomably enticing it threatens all my will and resolve while removing every rational thought from my mind. I remain unshakable, even as my nose comes in contact with the nasal cannula she's wearing or the feel and reverberation of her rapid pulse beneath my hands.

The only thing that pulls me from her is Daniel's arrival, when that cloak of reticence is once more forced between us. I pull back, seeing only Bella's delicate face while all desire I'd been struggling with only moments ago is now greatly diminished. I still crave her physically, but the all-encompassing irrationality of it is momentarily quelled.

Michael understood all too well why he needed to protect her from me.

Bella grabs my hand. "Edward, when you return I want you to be my husband."

She's serious and despite myself, I laugh too full of emotion. "You asked me that once before," I reveal, gently wiping her hair off her forehead.

She falters as if it surprises her, as a smile spreads slowly across her face. "What did you say?"

I open my mouth to answer when I hesitate. "We... it wasn't permitted."

Her expression falls and her gaze drops to her hands that remain enclosed in mine. I squeeze them gently.

"Would it be permitted now?" she ventures, her eyes reluctantly returning to mine and burning with hope.

"There's no one to stop us," I disclose in a quiet voice.

"Then promise me, Edward, and I promise to hold on and wait for you," she bargains with me, and appearing so full of conviction her voice drops to barely a whisper.

I know I can't deny her a single thing, and so nodding in agreement, I once again plant my lips to her brow. "If you want me to be your husband, then I'll be your husband."

Though, even if by some miracle I survive my battle with Raphael, I'm unsure what kind of marriage I will be able to enter into with her. We will never be able to consummate it, I will never risk her by attempting it, and such a barren union can only end in failure.

As for what was once the most important clause of my redemption, my admittance back to Heaven; I am not even positive I want to return without her anymore.

A smile immediately warms her face, and she nods.

"I love you, Dashiel," she admits after a pause with an unmistakable tremor to her voice.

On impulse I break into an utterance that is halfway between a laugh and sob. As a part of the Angelic Host it had taken me more than a decade to fall so absolutely in love with her, but in this life while governed by all the same maddening human characteristics as her, she inevitably bewitched me heart and soul, in only a few short months.

And I realize as a human, it is _I_ who have no defenses against her.

I don't reply, mainly because there are no human words that can adequately convey the depths of my love for her. Instead, I press my lips to hers, gently but only briefly as I simultaneously pull open the drawer to my nightstand. Inside a syringe sits filled with 10 mgs of diazepam that I inject into her IV.

Daniel has arrived and Ramuell and his pack have left to wait for me just on the outskirts of town. From upstairs, I mentally direct my father to allow him entrance, and the moment he steps over the threshold the oppression of the house I'd detected immediately upon arrival is instantly lifted by the amulet he carries.

I'd read it in my mother's thoughts. Almost immediately after my disappearance, her and my father were attacked by demonic spirits directed for the most part by demons in the flesh. It had near driven them mad until they were forced to find orthodox methods to deal with it. They sought the help of a local Catholic priest who blessed the house, and both of them, before they both received the holy baptism.

To find my parents' house littered with crucifixes and religious paraphernalia considering they were once staunchly Atheist is so incongruous it's almost comical. But it was always going to be inevitable. The demons in their own zealous oversight, almost always drive their anointed chosen directly to the path of God.

" _You_!" Bella gasps the moment Daniel enters my bedroom.

He smiles awkwardly at her before his eyes quickly rest on me.

I turn to her and squeeze her hand in reassurance. "I'm sorry, sweetheart. There was no time to warn you. It was me who sent Daniel to take you from the convent."

Bella's surprised eyes canvass mine as her expression almost immediately floods with regret. This time her emotions are evident, and it's not hard to ascertain why. She'd escaped her captors straight into the hands of Abaddon's demons.

She blames herself.

She shakes her head as her brow knots heavily with grief. "Oh, Edward. He-he told me you'd sent him, but I didn't believe him. I'm _sorry_."

I shake my head adamantly. "Isabella, _none_ of this is your fault. _None_."

Her tears break free nonetheless, and sitting beside her on the bed I pull her into my arms. The sedative is beginning to take effect and her head drops sluggishly to my shoulder. "Listen to me," I murmur to her. "You remember that promise you made me, and I'll remember mine. Okay?"

"Okay," she echoes, her voice so soft it barely emits a sound as she lifts her head to once more meet my eyes. She only stares into them for the longest time, but she doesn't speak a word. Instead she places her palm to the side of my face, struggling to contain her tears.

It's me who looks away first. I have no choice; she is almost literally breaking me, and I know if I stay in her presence any longer my resolve will be compromised.

I lay her down; she doesn't resist. Her eyes dip heavily as she slowly succumbs to the diazepam; only her hand remains steadfast around mine.

Daniel approaches, kneeling beside the bed, and out of a small bag he produces Bella's amulet. Taking it from him, I place it delicately in her palm, closing her fingers around it before bending down to press my lips to her brow.

"All this is futile, brother," Daniel speaks up in emphasis to the IV line as he pulls out several vials of what appears to be holy water and anointing oil from the same pouch that hangs over his shoulder. "The Mother Superior at the convent supplied them to me," he explains the question I don't ask, before he proceeds to dab oil on his fingers and mark Bella's forehead with the sign of the cross. "See that your father places these in her IV." He stands and places several bottles of holy water in my hand.

From his mind I realize this isn't the first time Daniel has done this—nursed a human who'd relinquished their soul—and grabbing his arm I pull him out of the room, out of Bella's earshot.

"How long can you hold it off?" I ask.

"At best? Two weeks—she's so innocent," he attempts to explain, and there is a reluctance in his tone as he meets my gaze and then severs it. As if the truth is as equally hard for him to hear as it is for me.

"Brother, listen to me," I begin, and when he nods I continue. "I want you to search every church and question every priest, rabbi—or witch to find a loophole around the beast's contract. There _has to be_ something," I stress my desperation, but he doesn't need me to; he understands fully.

He nods again as his eyes lower. "You have my word."

"I'm not likely to return, so I am entrusting you with her. In the name of our father, _please,_ Daniel _. Do everything you can_ ," I beg him, feeling myself waver before him in the absolutely despair of what lays before her.

"I promise you, brother. I will treat her as if she is Sarah."

Sarah...

His mind opens at long last, revealing his human to me.


	19. Chapter 18

**The Fallen**

 **Chapter 18**

Angels as a rule are impervious and cannot be killed. The only exception is when they take human form; as humans they are susceptible to the same vulnerabilities. If I am able to kill Raphael in human form, he will immediately retain his body of light, but in light-form he cannot battle me. I am constrained by physical matter, and it will momentarily separate us between the boundaries of my incarceration. He will need to return to Heaven to obtain another human form.

That's when I must free Azazel.

Of course, he can immediately call for reinforcements and send any number of archangels after me. I have no way of knowing how long that will take, and how long the window of opportunity will be open.

If I free Azazel long enough for the beast to escape recapture then by Abaddon's own contract he is bound to free Bella's soul. And, I'll be able to withstand the knowledge that I have forsaken my position in Heaven indefinitely if I know Bella's soul is released.

Furthermore, if I am fully cast out of Heaven, she will be given a new guardian.

I leave the moment Bella succumbs fully to the sedative, and this time when I bid my parents farewell it is with the full intent that I am going to my death.

I embrace my parents without pretense. They're somewhat aware of what I am about to embark on, but they're unaware that my resulting death is an inevitability.

I'd already put them through it once; I don't have the heart to warn them of it a second time. I am unsure my mother could withstand it, nor willingly allow me to leave.

"Look after Isabella for me, Dad," I appeal to my father who only nods solemnly, and grabs my forearm in a quiet expression of affection.

"Are you going to tell me who she is?" he asks, and it occurs to me that this is the first time he's ever voiced his curiosity for her. He wonders if, like me, she is angel-kind.

I wish I could tell him she is. Though, the truth is she is more angelic than I have ever been. Overall, both he and my mother have been more accepting of the nature of my existence, the beasts, as well as Bella, than I had anticipated.

"She's my... fiancé," I settle with, a smile ghosting across my face even as it almost immediately fades.

"Your fiancé," my father echoes, his smile mirroring my own before he slaps my back. "Hurry, home, son."

On impulse, I feel the frown crease my brow, before I hastily conceal it.

"Keep Daniel close," I advise. "He will protect you."

My father nods again, his eyes darting to the demon who is standing several feet to the side, his gaze lowered respectfully.

My mother hugs me tightly before she reaches out and runs her hand gently over the base of my right wing. "As crazy as it seems, this really does make so much sense. I could never put my finger on it, but I knew there was something special about you, my beautiful boy."

She did know. Even in the womb I understood her innate awareness. Esme isn't the first of my human mothers who intrinsically sensed the divinity of my nature. Most of all my mother's did—though more than one saw me as a bad omen and attempted to kill me in infanthood—but she is the first to have it validated.

I cup my palm to the side of her face, but becoming so overrun with emotion, I quickly turn my back to her as my gaze locks with Daniel's.

He nods once and reiterates his promise to me telepathically, _I will do everything I can, brother._

I nod in return; I'm counting on it.

Without another word, I launch myself into the air.

On my way out of the city I pass over Ramuell and his demons. They mean to follow me.

"I cannot ask you to follow where I am going, Ramuell," I state, after dropping down before them.

Raphael will slay Ramuell and his pack without hesitation, and although five of the second legion's fallen, the beasts do not deserve such an unjust end.

"Brother," Ramuell steps forward, "I'm sorry I let her escape. I-I was so concerned about hurting her. I—" he digresses in apology before I interject, shaking my head.

"It's done, Ramuell," I murmur, but I should have foreseen this. Bella is no ordinary human; she's incredibly canny. I should have warned them to be on guard with her.

"We inadvertently led her into the serpent's lair," he adds, exhaling his breath past his evident regret. In fact, the demon's guilt and shame is palpable. "The entire country is controlled by Lucifer's demons."

"Not even I had knowledge of it, brother. You can't blame yourself," I attempt to placate him; though, the very fact that the country's flag herald's a red dragon should have been more evident to me. I naively associated it with frivolous cultural superstition and nothing more, but it's quite clear the beasts hide in plain sight.

He nods, his eyes lowering with his continued shame before he once more meets my gaze. "What do you expect of us?"

"Guard the city, keep out any rogue demons, and kill any humans that threaten her," I state, though my tone is flat, emotionless, but in response he nods his head sedately.

"You have my word," he asserts and apprehensively, he extends his hand to me.

I take it, gripping it tightly, before I offer my respect in the same manner to each of the demons in turn.

"God speed, Dashiel," Asbeel petitions, while his thoughts contradict his apparent sense of ease. He and his fellow fallen brothers are deeply troubled by the prospect of my death, and I realize how unforgivably I have underestimated them.

"Keep up the good fight, brothers," I voice my unwitting kinship for the beasts, before I once more propel myself into the sky, and head east for The Levant.

 **. . .**

It is a five and a half thousand mile journey to Israel. I travel for the most part over the Atlantic Ocean, reaching the Mediterranean in just under seven hours. I conserve as much energy as I can, keeping to the highest point in the troposphere and gliding toward my destination rather than flying.

The one positive about the country of Israel is that it is so sacred that no beast can withstand coming within several miles of its borders.

The Negev Desert is in southern Israel, comprising just over half of the country with its main city being Be'er Sheva. The desert itself is arid and rocky; an accumulation of jagged mountain ranges, brown dusty sand, and dry riverbeds that often bloom after rain.

If I was ever allowed to exist in Israel prior to the birth of the Messiah, I would know exactly where Dudeal is located today. As it is, I have only a rough idea, but in reality, the beast Azazel's exact location could be anywhere throughout the region. His incarceration was never destined to be accessible to humans, so I expect him to be deep within the belly of one of the mountains.

I need to rely on my senses to locate him, and it means flying low enough to be within range of the demon's certain gravity when I pass overhead. It forces me to wait until nightfall, and even then I'm easily within sight of the various nomadic bedouin tribes that have made the Negev their home.

I run the very real risk of alerting Michael of my motives, but I'm naïve to think my brother doesn't know exactly where I am at any given point in time. But then it is Raphael's charge to guard Azazel, not Michael's.

By the second night I am closing in on the beast. I have narrowed his location down to within the Timna National Park, seventeen miles north of Eilat. The overall park spans fifteen thousand acres, its valley shaped in a large crescent that is circumscribed by yellow sandstone cliffs. At its center is the red volcanic Mount Timna.

Mount Timna is where I am becoming certain the demon is buried.

At the southern base of the mountain lies a section of King Solomon's Pillars; a set of tall red sandstone hills. While at its east is the ruins of a 12th century BC Egyptian mining temple. Right of the temple, high on the sandstone cliff face is a carving of King Ramses III.

This is where I feel Azazel's vibration more acutely.

A railed path of stairs leads up through the eroded sandstone hills to better view the rock carving, but I disregard it; flying to the top most part of the mountain, directly overlooking the temple.

I search for an entranceway, one that will not immediately be conspicuous, overturning rocks and boulders of all shapes and sizes, until I unwittingly stumble into a shaft. Or more, I pass through a barrier of sandstone several feet deep that the laws of physics should have deemed an impossibility.

I find myself in a passageway that leads down a steady descent into the depths of the mountain. It is pitch black, despite clutching Michael's sword that provides me with a few feet of illumination. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust, before I once more advance. I inch forward slowly, cautiously, my senses heightened and on guard, when after several hundred feet the tunnel ends abruptly and I stumble into a freefall.

I quickly right myself, descending into a large volcanic cavern forged from molten rock. It is at least fifty stories high, with a circumference of roughly a mile in every direction, while multiple ancient lava tunnels branch out from various peaks within.

The cave itself is illuminated by multiple channels of active flowing liquid rock beneath the floor's crust; an incandescence of radiation, giving it a hellish ambience befitting the demon who's imprisoned within.

I'm bare-footed and the ground is warm, while multiple cracks in the floor's surface emits a fine mist of steam making the atmosphere uncomfortably humid.

Slowly, meticulously, I circle the cavern, Michael's blade outstretched before me, as I attempt to detect the demon's medium. The beast is to the west side of the cave, and as I calculate the number of passageways I will need to rule out before I discover the direct route to him, a sudden rumbling overhead immediately brings me to a halt.

I brace myself; I can feel him approaching. His pending arrival disrupts the atmospheric pressure within the cave, causing part of the roof to collapse, before, in an illumination of white light, Raphael himself drops soundlessly before me.

He stares at me, his gold eyes hard and indecipherable, and while he is dressed in battle armor of refined brass, he does not appear to wield a weapon.

"Raphael," I greet him, breaking the steeled silence between us.

He smirks at me slowly, his head shaking heedfully back and forth as his gaze remains locked to mine. "Have you lost your reason, Dashiel?"

"I have no other choice," I reply, attempting to breach his mind to weigh any added risks or advantages, but he keeps it tightly sealed.

"And you believe I do?"

"I'm sorry, brother," I apologize ahead of my impending actions.

He nods his head slightly in acknowledgement as his gaze once more engages with mine. "Are you certain this is the course of action you wish to undertake?"

"Yes," I answer.

"You do realize I will have no other alternative than to kill you?"

"Yes," I repeat, and before the word has passed my lips he has me by the throat, his fingers crushing around my larynx.

"You're a fool!" he seethes, tearing Michael's sword from my hand. Then leaping roughly ten feet into the air, he slams me back to the cavern floor.

The force alone fractures my skull, and while my wings take the brunt of the impact, several of my vertebra have been fragmented. I struggle weakly to hold onto my consciousness, when he again drags me to my feet.

I have gravely underestimated him, and am virtually powerless in his grip.

"Last chance, Dashiel," he offers coldly, bringing me within millimeters of his face.

I shake my head, in answer as well as in a futile attempt to regain my coherence. I can feel my lungs filling with blood, and while I can move my arms, and wings, I have no feeling or control over my legs. The beast has severed my spinal cord. "She's... _dying_."

"Then she dies!" His voice raises sharply. "Do you think you can change our father's will?"

" _Our father,"_ I repeat bitterly, caustically, as I tear futilely at his constraint around my throat. "He's not my father, and He's certainly not hers."

"The prodigal son..." Raphael sneers, his entire expression darkening as his fingers continue to squeeze, slowly restricting my airway. " _Even now_."

"Kill me, _you impotent son of a whore_ ," I choke, filling with rage and frustration at my own infirmity, and at this beast of an angel's ruthlessness that he would mock me at the lowest moment in all the millennia of my godforsaken existence.

But he doesn't kill me. What he does is infinitely worse.

Forcing me roughly to my stomach, the beast grounds his foot into my back, bracing himself, before he brutally tears my wings from my body.

An explosion of agony erupts from me. A physical pain so relentless and uncompromising for one eternal moment I lose all sense of time and space.

Raphael knew exactly what he was doing. My wings like any other physical part of me will heal and grow back, only to regrow them will be a lot more grueling and arduous than the first time I was put through the process.

He has just condemned me to twelve hours of pure torment as they reform.

"He should have cast you out like the _vermin_ who lies in this tomb," the angel leans down to me and whispers scathingly into my ear.

I cannot answer; I only lay pitifully helpless and paralyzed as my entire body continues to convulse in pain.

And the angel before me openly laughs.

As my spine braces, preparing to restore my second arms, my ribs are pushed painstakingly into my lungs, and well into the night I fight the torture of it; fruitlessly suppressing my pain-filled roars, while vomiting and choking on the blood my lungs and stomach forcefully expel.

The beast of an angel Raphael doesn't leave. Instead, he remains beside me, shouting out a tirade of vilification throughout every second of the agony I'm condemned to.

I barely hear a word of it, but as the pitch and tenor of the beast's voice continuously assaults my senses, all it does is enrage me; until I'm literally trembling with anger on top of the unbearable physical suffering I'm forced to endure.

When I pass mid-transition I begin to yell and curse back him, calling him and my father every vile, blasphemous insult I can manage without regret, but it only emboldens him.

Several times he takes Michael's sword and plunges it into my back, or lower torso. Not enough to kill me, of course; just enough to continue his torture and prolong my suffering.

By dawn I am broken, and as the last of the forearms of my wings tears forcibly through my flesh, I am so beaten and demoralized I feel as if I am drowning beneath it. I cry out to Bella, apologizing to her repeatedly that I couldn't save her, and begging for forgiveness as rivers of tears burn through me.

"I'm sorry, brother. I love her with everything I am," I repeat my first assertion to Raphael, my voice pathetically hoarse and fractured, and through the veil of absolute exhaustion, unconsciousness inevitably descends on me.

I have no idea how long I sleep, but when I wake I am fully reformed and healed. I am no longer in the cavern of the beast Azazel.

I am still in Israel, as far as I can ascertain, on Mount Timna in a deep, shaded trench in the sandstone at the peak of the mountain.

Beside me is Michael. I felt him before my eyes opened, and clumsily getting to my feet, I turn to him.

"Do you see where your love for this human has led you?" he speaks, though his voice is restrained and almost seeped in empathy.

"I was damned to this planet to find her and love her!" I exclaim, but I don't have the emotional fortitude to express the anger of my convictions.

"To have _her_ love _you_ ," he corrects me with impatience. "To comprehend the fundamental basis of humanity that you, Dashiel, have _never_ understood."

"I was _never_ created to live among them!" I reply in defense of the injustice that was forced upon me.

" _You chose_ that path!" Michael points out, his tone inevitably turning hard.

"And it was all for nothing! Her love for me has cost her her soul!" I burst, feeling the piercing ache in my heart upon the reminder of her fate.

Michael is silent; he only stares at me with pity burning in the severity of his gold eyes.

"Please, brother," I beseech him. " _Help her..._ "

He takes a short, dismissive breath. "You know my hand is staid when it comes to them. They have free will."

" _Free will_?" I question him with increasing disgust. "She had no guardian to protect her from them!"

" _You_ are her guardian!" he reminds me, his voice flaring with his open contempt for me.

"She was _innocent_!" I declare. "He made _her_ suffer for my actions."

He takes a calculated step toward me as his expression twists with scorn. "You who questions," he speaks with direct accusation. "You who _always_ questions."

"I will burn this wretched planet to the ground before I allow her soul to be taken!" I rage with absolute intent. "By the name of _Elohim_ , I will kill them all!"

"Does that include your parents?" He raises a skeptical brow at me.

I glare at him, my fists clenching with increasing resentment. "It includes _all_."

To my antagonism he laughs. "Do you see the power humans have over us? How you have lost your very reason and senses?"

Taking in his words, I falter, frowning and shaking my head slightly in confusion.

"You willingly, _blindingly_ ,complied with the _beast's_ ruse without question! Who do they sell their souls to, Dashiel?" And before I can answer, he himself grants me it. "Do they sell them to individual beasts or to _The Morning Light_?"

I freeze as realization and a deeply ingrained sense of shame descends upon me.

The beast Abaddon fooled me, and I walked straight into it, absurdly taking him at his word.

"You, the most advanced human to have ever lived, were _so easily_ deceived, because of _one_ human female!" he continues to berate me, his tone enforced with disdain as his eyes bear into mine.

I sway, dropping to my knees as all energy drains from me behind the admission that in every sense I have failed her.

"The great devil has her soul now, Dashiel, and there isn't a beast under Heaven or Earth who could sway him to return it."


	20. Chapter 19

**The Fallen**

 **Chapter 19**

"Then what is the point to any of it?" I voice my disbelief while wanting to laugh bitterly at the utter futility of it. "My banishment, Isabella being slain thousands of times before she could even live— _IT WAS ALL FOR NOTHING_!" I roar out the injustice of it to Michael; who only gazes intently at me, but doesn't respond.

His sudden silence incenses me, and tensing I release my wings preparing to take flight. "Either kill me or leave, you wretched beast!" I burst, the burning anger and acute sense of helplessness manifesting as contempt for my brother. "Either way, I _never_ want to be in your company again!"

And still the beast refuses to utter a word; he only continues to stare at me with an emotion I cannot decipher. But I have lost all patience for him, and just as I am about to launch myself into the hazy early morning Israeli skyline, I immediately detect the vibration of another.

Daniel.

Michael is immediately on guard, his expression hardening with repulsion. "How is the beast able to breach the boundaries of the city?" he demands.

Before I can answer, Daniel makes somewhat of a crash landing into the sandstone cliff face of the chasm. He hastily pulls himself to his feet; short of breath and slightly manic. "Dashiel, I—" he begins when his gaze meets that of Michael's.

He momentarily freezes and takes a several steps back; his panic making him so clumsy he almost loses his footing.

"M-Michael," he stammers to address the enraged archangel before him.

Michael only sneers at him and raises his sword to strike him down. This is when I grab the sword Michael himself bestowed on me; the same sword I had woken holding in my grip.

In the next breath, I swing it between them, halting Michael's intended execution.

"You _will not_ harm him!" I boldly challenge him, placing myself directly in front of him.

Michael's gaze steels to mine, his expression hard and unforgiving, but before he can turn his sword on me, I drive the blade closer to the hilt of his, slicing through his wrist. It severs his physical hand from his arm where it almost immediately reforms, but not before his sword drops to the ground between us. His pride is damaged more than anything, that I—a lowly half-breed in his eyes—caught him off guard.

Immediately enraged, he advances upon me, gripping me beneath my jawline, his fingers cutting into my thyroid cartilage, as he draws me to him.

"Tread very carefully, _Dashiel_ ," he speaks lowly.

"Get your _damn hands_ off me!" I demand, as I struggle to free myself, when he releases me; his gaze once more setting on Daniel.

"You have exactly five seconds to leave," he warns him, before he extends his wings and in a flash of light he is gone.

Daniel only stares at me for a pause too long, then appearing to pull himself from it, he thrusts out his hand to me. "Brother." There is a measure of relief in his tone; though, his thoughts are flooding with the motivating factor that set him after me and into the sacred land of Israel.

He's uncovered something.

I take it only momentarily before releasing him. "Follow me."

Michael remains close by and his intolerance of Daniel being in the holy land is genuine. I was able to hold him off once, at my own peril, but I know him enough to know he won't be as generous a second time.

I launch myself northward, knowing I have to increase the speed I travel until I'm high enough into the atmosphere to prevent from being seen, and head south.

Flying at a pace Daniel can keep up with, I again make landfall on Mount Sinai, Egypt; eighty miles out from the southern-most boarder of Israel. Geopolitically, the mountain is biblically historic; the place where Moses received the Ten Commandments, and I led Daniel here solely out of a sense of anarchism. Michael wanted him removed from Israel; I took him to the nearest holy site outside of. It's childish, I know, but the harrowing ordeal of the last twelve hours with Raphael has made me recklessly apathetic toward my brothers, and after only ten minutes in Michael's presence I'm simmering with dissent.

Daniel lands heavily amidst the volcanic dust and rocks on a brow-section of the mountain beside me.

"How is Isabella?" I ask before he can draw a breath.

"She's doing well, considering," he answers even as I penetrate his mind for validation. His thoughts are brimming with her, of my human girl, her beauty, and her deep, haunted brown eyes; all from a bearing of brotherly concern.

The beast is unreservedly uneasy in regards to her fate. He couldn't save his beloved Sarah, but he believes if he can help save Bella it will unburden him of the guilt that's tormented him for centuries.

"She's worried about you more than anything," he adds.

I expel my breath, feeling my forehead knot heavily in response. The degree of anxiety he's subconsciously projecting over Bella is increasing my own. It isn't conducive.

"Tell me what you know," I state, forcing my thoughts from her.

"I've found a Rabbi, a prophet who has in his possession a missing book from the Tanakh. The book of The Sons of God. There is a prophecy..." His voice is rushed, urgent, but his mind is chaotic and overrun with so much information it isn't coherent.

"Where?"

"Zimbabwe," he answers as the exact location is transmitted through his thoughts, along with an image of an old, silver-haired African Jewish man.

"Meet me there," I direct him, launching into the air without a moment's hesitation.

The man, this Rabbi, lives in rural Zimbabwe on Lake Chivero, and as I scan through the minds of the town's people, it is evident he is a well-respected man of his tribe. Not only a village elder and holy man, but a Shaman of sorts.

I land brazenly out in the open, amidst a collection of thatched-roof, circular stone huts, without retracting my wings.

The villagers freeze in various degrees of shock and awe, while many fall to their hands and knees in open reverence. They are superstitious, deeply religious people, and unlike the cynical breeds of westerners, their minds are not in conflict over procuring a more acceptable conclusion for what I am; something to justify a lifetime of godless behavior.

They're in full acceptance; a Host of the Lord before them.

If only they knew.

"Rise and take me to your priest," I speak in the native Bantu language to a young male who falls at my feet.

Immediately obeying, he stands, even as his legs openly quake, and leads me through the village to a hut that sits separated on the edge of the small town's clearing.

Inside sits a man who appears in his 70s, wearing western clothing, with a blue and white tallit, a Jewish prayer shawl, draped around his shoulders, and a navy yarmulke placed on his head.

The man, and the entire village, are members of the Lemba Hebrew people. Direct descendants of the Israelites, who 2500 years ago after escaping captivity in Babylon, travelled from Israel into Africa before marrying their women. And Like many venerable Jewish peoples throughout the world, the Lemba tribes are in possession of ancient manuscripts.

Unlike the villagers, the Rabbi displays no shock upon my arrival. He was expecting me, having already met Daniel, I extract from his mind. He's well prepared.

Clasping his palms together, he bows his head. "Shalom Aleichem, ach," he greets me, referring to me as his brother in Hebrew, and while his native language is Shona, he also speaks English.

I nod respectfully and sit down on the woven mat on the concreate floor, where he gestures. Then, without moving from his own position before me, he reaches for a large clay jar and carefully pulls a rolled parchment from it.

In both hands he offers it to me, emphasizing the sacred importance of it, before again bowing his head.

Like the Dead Sea Scrolls it is made up of vellum and papyrus, and is incredibly well preserved considering it is scores of centuries old.

Unrolling it delicately, I begin reading. It is written in an ancient Paleo-Hebrew, and speaks of a prophecy behind the story of the fallen angels; of the injustice of the swift condemnation of the guardians of man, by God Himself.

"Come to me my wayward sons," I read hastily out loud to myself. "For by His blood forgiveness and salvation I have extended to you."

The story continues of a rebellious son, who wields the power of God to restore His Heavenly Host. "For demons will turn to dust and angels will fall, and man will yield to madness," I continue, as my mind races to decipher the meaning. "But only all three can hold the power in his hand. Three days in the tomb, from Hell to Heaven, the son rose, but on his last breath, in three days, from Heaven to Hell shall thee be sent."

My heart stills as a sense of inevitability filters through me. I am in full understanding of what the text speaks, and it can only be referring to me. After all, I am neither angel, nor demon, nor man, but all three. If the prophecy is true, through the covenant of the Son's sacrifice, I will have the ability to wield the power of God, the power to restore; to restore the fallen to their positions among the Angelic Host; and to restore Bella's soul to her.

For three days, I will wield this power, and then I will go to Hell.

What I have not grasped, however, is by what vessel such power will be granted to me.

"Do you see?" The rabbi speaks up, breaking me from my moment of distraction.

"Yes, I see," I answer, my voice quiet, as my thoughts once more wrestle with a stranglehold of confusion and uncertainty.

The covenant of the son. The Messiah was nailed to the cross for the transgressions of man, then died and rose to Heaven. His blood...

There are very few physical remnants preserved today that pertain to the blood of the Messiah. One is the shroud of Turin, the second the Sudarium of Oviedo, the third, fragments of the cross from the crucifixion, and the fourth, the Spear of Destiny.

Shaking my head in rising frustration, I continue reading. The story concludes with the rebellious angel, who after restoring the balance between Heaven and Earth, is cast down to the pit, while interwoven throughout are verses from the Old Testament prophets, Malachi, Jeremiah, Isaiah and Micah. The book itself ends with Isaiah 53: He was pierced for our transgressions, he was crushed for our iniquities; the punishment that brought us peace was on him, and by his wounds we are healed.

"By his wounds we are healed," I murmur to myself, as I theoretically mesh the clues together.

The Messiah received several wounds. The first from his scourging, the second from the crown of thorns, the third, the nails driven through his wrists and feet, and the fourth, the spear that pierced his heart.

 _He was pierced…_

In an instant I am on my feet, the swiftness of my movements startling the rabbi.

"Thank you, brother," I hastily blurt out in Hebrew, handing the scroll of parchment back to him, before I burst through the open doorway to his hut and project myself into the sky.

I mean to head off Daniel's arrival knowing at best he'd still be somewhere over the Sudans, but it's Michael I again inevitably encounter.

He interjects from above, advancing on me swiftly. Grabbing my wings, he forces me to make landfall with him on a mountain range in the northern region of Uganda that borders Kenya.

My initial impression is that he intends to punish me for exposing myself to the Lemba tribe, perhaps even to kill me, but his expression quickly dissuades my concerns. He appears... anxious, and Michael _never_ portrays an emotion that alludes to weakness.

 _Never_.

"I have to warn you, brother. If you wield the spear for _any_ reason, no matter your intentions, it _will_ destroy you. It is _not_ a part of your clause for salvation! It has its own covenant, and it is _binding_."

I open my mouth to speak, but falter; Michael's heedfulness is disconcerting.

He continues, "It is to ensure the beasts don't use it to their own advantage, nor any angel who seeks to subvert our father and His laws again."

"Will it return Bella's soul?" I put to him; nothing else matters to me, after all.

"Our father's power is limitless, as you know, Dashiel," is all he volunteers as his gaze lowers.

"Then I have no other choice. I will willingly suffer an eternity of Hell if it saves Isabella from it," I assert resolutely; I will, and he knows it.

"You are going to your own destruction," he concludes, shaking his head minutely to himself, as his eyes once more seize my own.

He's not telling me anything I am not already aware of. I have long known of the existence of the Spear of Destiny. Every angel and beast under Heaven and Earth knows of it; though, none would ever be so foolhardy to even contemplate wielding it. As the weapon that ended the Messiah's life it holds infinite, immeasurable power.

I naturally assumed that if I so much as touched the spear I'd immediately become fallen; as would any other angel; Michael included. The power of God, after all, is so immense it would destroy anything that attempted to control it. There is no being under Him who could contain it.

What I wasn't aware of, however, was any prophecy pertaining to me, nor could I even conceive of the notion that I, out of every Son of Man ever created, would be able to fully utilize its power. For three days, no less.

I have yet to even ascertain whether there is any truth to the prophecy; though, Michael's admission is proof enough.

"It's my choice," I remind him, squaring my shoulders; daring him to stand in my way.

He half nods in acknowledgement even as his entire expression darkens. "You do realize that while you hold the spear there is no power in this universe you will not be in possession of. If you wanted, you could kill me and every member of the Angelic Host in existence. Use that power wisely, Dashiel."

"I intend to," I reply in a quiet voice.

"Though," Michael adds, a small smirk creeping across his face, "if I suspected those were your motives you wouldn't live long enough to find it."

"Are you aware just how narcissistic you are, brother?" I reply, my voice lightening.

He laughs and reaches out to grip my shoulder in a rare display of candor. "The moment you touch it you will be beyond my reach, so I bid you farewell, Dashiel."


	21. Chapter 20

**The Fallen**

 **Chapter 20**

For two thousand years the Spear of Destiny has been hidden in plain sight. Every demon that wanders the planet, as well as every member of the Angelic Host, knows of it and its whereabouts—myself included. Though, none would ever be so foolishly reckless to even contemplate the idea of laying a finger on it.

After Michael departs, leaving me on Mount Moroto in northern Uganda, I immediately take flight, heading out of Africa toward the Mediterranean Sea. I pass by Daniel as I do, a half a mile east and several hundred feet above him.

 _Go back to Isabella,_ I place the instruction in this mind, without averting my gaze or my attention from the city that lays before me.

To my slight consternation, he disobeys me, immediately changing course to follow after me; though, by the speed I travel he inevitably trails me, falling further and further behind.

By noon I descend to make landfall in Rome, Italy. I land brazenly in the cobble-stoned center of St Peter's Square in the Vatican City; the headquarters of the Roman Catholic Church.

There are several hundred people milling around, tourists for the most part who after their initial gasping and audible shock, all turn various cameras and smart phone devices in my direction and begin recording.

I pause at the Vaticano Obelisk—a structure stolen from Egypt—which centers the Renaissance architecture of the plaza. Aligning the square are two north and south facing crescent colonnades with St. Peter's Basilica directly before me. I stare up at the scores of statues of saints that sit atop the roofs of both colonnades, as the curiosity of the humans increases.

They're closing slowly in on me; their buzzing minds incoherent behind their over-animated thoughts.

I begin to walk toward the Basilica.

 _It is a hologram you are seeing, nothing more. A clever illusion_ , I validate the _logical_ explanation they themselves are already coming to the conclusion of, in their minds as I pass them by.

North of the square lies the Sistine Chapel, the Apostolic Palace—where the Pontiff sleeps—followed by the Vatican Archives and various museums. Though I'm under no delusions as to where the spear is located. It will be closely guarded in a vault deep in the underbelly of the city; no doubt behind several feet of reinforced steel. Measures taken to protect it from humans. Or, more accurately, to protect humans from it.

I continue my descent down the square, and as I get closer I begin to feel it; the energy of what lies beneath.

Or of whom.

The tomb of Saint Peter the Apostle is said to reside in a mausoleum in the Vatican Necropolis; the city of the dead. Its vibration washes over my body of skin the closer I come, standing each and every hair on end. It is almost a low bass humming directly beneath my feet; a magnetism so tangible it reminds me directly of the essence and vitality that exists within Bella that unyieldingly calls to me.

I pause at the base of the Basilica before the stairs that lead to its entrance. My eyes catch the statues of both Saint Peter and Saint Paul, the patron saints of Rome, and for a long period, I inspect them closely as I allow my senses to become more centered.

This is when several clergymen dressed in black cassocks descend down the stairs toward me. They appear in a hurry, their gazes and thoughts all directed at the bishop between them, who's set apart by the purple sash he wears, as they all but pass me by; unaware of my presence.

Just when I am certain I will completely escape their attention, the bishop freezes mid stride at the foot of the stairs and slowly turns his widening eyes on me.

"Angelo del Signore!" one of the priests to his right gasps, reaching out to grip the large silver cross that hangs from his neck; though, his fellow clergymen remain silent.

Their evident shock has beset them mute, both audibly and mentally, while through their eyes I see how I appear. I am bare-chested and footed, wearing only a filthy, dirt-laden pair of jeans that are stained through with my own blood, while my wings hang low from my back.

 _Angel, demon, angel, demon_... is all their minds disclose to me in the panicked rush of their deliberations; seemingly unable to find conclusion.

"Take me to your cardinal," I make my intent known in Italian to the highest ranking of the priests before augmenting it once more mentally.

The bishop bows once, his eyes remaining comically incomprehensible, and turning automatically on his heel he walks back up the stairs toward the entrance of the Basilica.

The six remaining priests follow suit, pale and numb in their shock, while I bring up the rear several paces behind.

The moment I step inside through the center doors onto the extensive marble floors, The Swiss Guard—the ridiculously dressed Pontifical Guards who look like court jesters—and several church officials zero in on me as a stark deafening silence befalls the near vicinity. I immediately redirect the actions of the guard, and remind the scores of open-mouthed humans that I am nothing more than a hologram.

Once inside, the bishop and priests continue forward, and as I follow, my eyes rise to take in the enormity of the interior. I haven't been in the city of Rome in five hundred years, before this very Basilica was built. I'm somewhat fascinated, albeit cynically, by the grandeur and opulence of its design that dwarfs the humans in every retrospect. I can acknowledge the impressive architecture and the artistry of Michelangelo and Bernini, as well as the various other Renaissance, Baroque, and Neo-classical sculptures and artworks that align the vast walls and ceilings, but any deep appreciation I might have held over it is overshadowed as I focus my senses on the medium of the building itself.

A definite residual energy lingers in this structure, but there is something more. I am unable to ascertain whether it's coming from its ancient underground burial crypts, or the overall ambience of what the architecture itself symbolizes. Though, make no mistake, the minds of the clergy I pass vary from heretics, to hypocrites and modern day Pharisees, to stringent, faithful believers. And even some whose minds delve into darker corners than the controversial history the congregational hierarchy has amassed.

The demons are hard at work here, as are the angels.

There are hidden cameras all over the walls, alerting hundreds of security personnel to my presence. Several side doors burst open, revealing scores of men behind them, before I readily redirect their thoughts and actions.

 _I'm a hologram. You're hallucinating. There is no such thing as angels_ , I plant calmly in their minds as I continue on the path the priests lead.

Just prior to the expansive dome overhead, the bishop turns left toward the sacristy. His mind has rid itself from the cloak of shock and is becoming lucid. He is unsure if I am fallen and is deliberating plans to exorcize me, even to kill me, in attempts to remove me from the city and away from the good Pontiff. As he walks he pushes a small panic device alerting his fellow clergymen, not security; though, the priests who flank him remain undecided in regards to me.

I snort softly beneath my breath, but continue on unfettered.

We pass through several large, double mahogany doors into smaller rooms and compartments, before we descend down a set of marble stairs that takes us to the ground floor of the sacristy. Here the bishop stops and takes a seat in a red velvet chair, neither looking at me or his six companions. Though his apparent calm is contradicted by the increased rate of his heart and oxygen intake. He is anxious for his fellow faithful to arrive, while he internally prays.

 _Most glorious Prince of the Heavenly Armies,  
Saint Michael the Archangel,  
defend us in our battle against principalities and  
powers,_ _against the rulers of this world of darkness…_

Becoming increasingly impatient with the bishop's misconceptions, I turn to him, pull Michael's sword from the waistband of my jeans and unleashing its fiery blade so suddenly the man almost convulses from the chair he sits in. "Whose sword do you think this belongs to?" I demand, continuing to speak in his native tongue, and when he offers no reply I answer for him. "The very angel you are praying to. I am _not_ a demon, _priest_!"

His breath draws violently in, though he only continues to stare at me; his gaze alternating from my wings to the blade between his eyes before they rest on mine.

"My son..." he begins in apology when I interject.

"Have you sent for a cardinal?

He nods his head in a jerky motion, as my attention is suddenly diverted to the several excited, cautious minds that are approaching.

Ten of them enter the room in single file. One by one their eyes take in the form of the grey-winged angel before them as they each pull up short in varying degrees of surprise.

Not all exhibit the same measure of fear and panic as their fellow brothers in the cloth. Several regard me with a quiet reserve, while the cardinal among them stares with wide eyes, his mind locked in a temporary disturbance.

"My son," the greying middle-aged man quickly collects himself and mutters, his shaking hands clasping before himself as if he were going to pray.

I shake my head; their continued shock irritates me. For men who have dedicated their lives while forsaking all proliferation to my father, their reactions to a physical embodiment thereof is maddening.

"I'm going to ask you this once, and _only_ once," I state, to which he nods his head in compliance. "Is the spear in the possession of the Vatican?"

He pauses, his eyes lowering before he nods a second time.

"Are you able to access it?"

Again he nods, while a grainy image of a metal box that sits in a laser protected vault passes through his thoughts. "I will have to acquire the consent of His Holiness."

"Where is he?" I lower my sword; this man's heart and mind is genuine and sincere.

"I believe he is having his early afternoon nap in his room," he answers.

"Will you take me to him?" I give him the courtesy of asking.

Again he nods, while signaling to several of his fellow clergymen to accompany him.

"Please, follow me," he holds out his arm and gestures toward a door to the right of the room.

I half nod my head and move to stand beside him; Michael's sword extinguished by my side.

We pass through the door into a darkened hallway before taking an elevator. As I suspect we descend into an underground passageway with various networks beneath the city. In silence we walk through the dimly lit catacombs before again taking another elevator; which by the minds of the holy men surrounding me, will take us up into the pontiff's personal chambers in the Apostolic Palace.

This is when I feel him; there is a demon nearby. A demon who, like Daniel, has evidently built an immunity to sacred ground.

The elevator doors open to a foyer lavishly adorned in the same Renaissance architecture of gold and marble, where a young women sits at a large antique desk. She looks to the men expectantly as they enter before her eyes fall on me.

 _I am not real. I'm a clever product of Hollywood,_ I place the thought in her mind, as her expression of horror slowly smooths out into one of awe-struck appreciation.

"Stupefacente!" she exclaims in a near whisper, while her reaction clearly confuses the holy men who accompany me.

 _I've assured her that I am simply an illusion_ , I explain mentally to the good fathers

My telepathic voice has created somewhat of a disturbance among the men. They all hastily spin around, glancing and muttering at each other to ascertain whether they all had heard me. My thoughts remain distracted, though. The demon in the next room senses me too, and is slowly succumbing to panic.

He is another tortured, wretched beast like Ramuell. Of that I am certain.

"My son," the cardinal turns to me, addressing me in a fractured English; his face is pale and pasty, though his eyes remain acute, "in the next... ah... room is... ah... the Supreme Pontiff's... ah... _guards_..."

I hold up my hand, breaking him from his cumbersome dialogue. Has he forgotten I speak his language? "Lo parlo Italiano," I reiterate, reminding him of the fact I am proficient in his native tongue.

He smiles, appearing relieved, and bows his head. "The guards, they will not allow anyone so... so _unconventional_ near the Holy Father," he explains with an evident amount of tact in Italian.

I smirk. "You don't think I'll be able to persuade them?"

His eyes instantly widen in horror. He believes he has insulted me. "No, my son. I..." he abandons what he believes is the futility of it and lowers his eyes; though his mind isn't as reticent.

"You believe I will be too much of a shock to your holy father? You fear for his wellbeing?" I repeat the reasoning behind his thoughts.

He jerks his head up, once more catching my gaze as a conceding smile breaks awkwardly across his face.

Sighing, and in an effort to acquiesce the wishes of the priest and place him more at ease, I retract my wings. The motion of it openly alarms them, while a shriek of horror erupts from the receptionist.

 _All a clever deception, my dear. Do not fear,_ I glance at her quickly before turning my attention back to the cardinal. "Do you wish me to put on a robe?"

Flattening his palms together, he once again bows as his expression relaxes. He plans to place blessed robes on me as a safeguard in the event I am fallen and am deceiving them all. Though the fact that he's allowed me this close to the good Pontiff is evidence enough that he believes I am not a demon.

Most demons would not be able to venture so close to consecrated ground, bar a handful of unorthodox beasts like Daniel, and one of the Pope's guards. The priests are aware of this, also. Though they have zero comprehension that a demon lurks among them, or that it is even possible.

Several of the bishops disappear through a door to the side, returning moments later with the garments that they nervously throw over my shoulders. I pull my hands through the sleeves, allowing one of the bishops to mark my forehead with trembling fingers—his gaze deliberately averted from mine—with anointing oil as he mutters away prayers in Latin.

 _Hebrew is more effective_ , I offer him with a small smile, causing him to momentarily stumble over his words before he finishes and quickly backs away from me.

The robe has a strong scent of the River Jordan lingering on it. It is evidently a cloth only the highest ranking of the priests are permitted to wear.

"I'm flattered," I utter cynically. _Are you satisfied?_ I add internally to each of them; they all react as though they hadn't heard as the cardinal signals the receptionist to announce our arrival.

In the next room sits five guards dressed in the same dark attire as the secret service to the United States President. One is female. They all immediately jump to their feet as we enter as their eyes zoom collectively to me. For the moment I allow them to come to their own conclusions while I inspect one in particular. The youngest of the men, appearing only in his early twenties, with medium brown hair and striking blue eyes stands the beast. In his panic his mind is rushed and jumbled; though, the medium of it is not hard to ascertain. He is indeed the same breed of demon as Daniel. He fornicated with his human love only to find himself immediately forsaken.

Working for the highest order of Christendom is his way of redemption, despite the absolute fruitlessness of it. Our father cares not whether he spends eternity coercing His humans into damnation or working as a witness to the Messiah Himself.

Poor, pitiful, naïve fool.

 _I mean you no harm_ , I silently project to him, watching as he shudders in response and minutely bows his head in acknowledgement.

For the rest, I silently direct them not to obstruct my entrance to the Pontiff.

They wave us though.

 _Follow_ , I instruct the beast, who dutifully obeys, falling in line behind me.

We enter into the front room of the Pontiff's apartment; the architecture is austere with the same marble floors and crown moldings to the ceiling and walls, but it is furnished sparsely. A hallstand sits against one wall, a bust of John Paul II placed in its center, while what appears to be Raphael's crucifixion hangs above. In the middle of the room a small round table is situated with two winged-back chairs alongside it in the period of Louis XIV.

I catch the mind of the holy man in the rooms beyond; it's in Spanish. He's mildly curious as to why his midday nap has been cut short, while his thoughts span ahead to his afternoon duties. He is due to address a formal audience in his apartment office.

He enters the room a moment later dressed in the white Papal insignia and Zucchetto skull cap. His eyes meet those of the bishops easily, before they turn to me. His smile increases. He is a jovial man and his thoughts are benign and forthright.

"What have you brought me?" he puts the question to the cardinal in fluent Italian as a slight frown creases his brow.

"Your Holiness..." I begin respectfully in Spanish, capturing his attention, before awkwardly pulling the Chasuble over my head. The Pontiff's eyes widen with caution just as I brace myself and unleash my wings.

The ordeal of the last twenty four hours has taken its toll on me, and the single the act of releasing my second arms pushes me forward in a momentary stranglehold of torment.

Impatiently, I force it back, pulling myself to my full height and again meeting the comically astonished eyes of the Bishop of Rome.

"This pains you," he murmurs after a moment, once more speaking in Italian as his eyes break from mine to rest on my wings. "Do you want me to bless you, my son?"

" _Bless me_?" I echo, unsure I have heard him correctly, before I laugh. "Don't waste your time."

His eyes widen in surprise, but his expression once more relaxes. "Then how can I help you, my son?"

"You have the spear. I want it," my answer is simple, as I reiterate it mentally. _Take me to it._

For a brief period he pauses as the image of the spear and its location filter through his thoughts; he nods compliantly. "Of course, my son. Of course. It is deep within our archives, but I can get it for you. Though, there is a curse—"

"The curse does not apply to me!" I interject, and he bows submissively.

"I must call the keeper of the keys," he explains, his gaze moving past me as he instructs the demon to contact him.

We pass back through the guard room into the reception foyer; the Pontiff walks beside me, studying me intently.

"The spear has the potential to destroy you, my son. What do you wish of it?" he asks me staidly in Spanish.

I turn to him; his question is a genuine one, and so I answer just as genuinely, "My human charge has sold her soul. I mean to have it returned to her."


	22. Chapter 21

**The Fallen**

 **Chapter 21**

The demon guard goes by a human name; Gianni. His angelic name, Gadreel, he has long forsaken. It is too painful a witness for him. He cannot bear to hear it; the very name given to him by our father and spoken and revered by his human mate.

Gadreel did not fall for procreating the hybrid monstrosity; he fell for desecrating the sanctum of marriage by entering into it with his chosen human. His mate, Beth, loved him unconditionally; something that did not falter even after his fall from grace. Together they shared thirty-five human years until the boundaries of mortality inevitably separated them. And throughout the course of their union Gadreel refused to succumb to the temptations of the flesh and put his beloved in danger; even when she surpassed child bearing years.

Yet death still separated them; something the beast remains tormented by to this day. He loved her through every facet of her human journey, even when he remained young and youthful, and she old and withered.

Like a reel of film the beast's mind projects the account of his banishment and the fabricated human life he'd briefly led, and yet he is one of the fortunate ones. The demon knew happiness; something which has carried him through the centuries, and something in which he has never regretted.

What tortures him now is the knowledge that he will never see her again. Like me, he has exhausted every effort to re-enter Heaven only to discover he has not only lost her to the constraints of humanity, but he has been utterly and completely forsaken by our father without any hope of redemption.

Yet over the last century hope has once again rekindled in his heart.

In the same reception room to the Papal Apartment we wait for the "keeper of the keys". Beside me, the Pontiff, cardinal and bishops have immersed themselves in hushed conversation; curbed not from my ears, but the scores of security awaiting on both sides of the door; Gadreel included. They are formulating a plan to have the spear removed from the city without it being noticed, or missed, by other various Papal officials.

The Pontiff became aware of my telepathy very quickly, and immediately shielded his mind from me; though, not before I was able to extract the location of the spear. It is indeed in the Necropolis below the Basilica.

Before the three days expires, I mean to return the spear to the Vatican, knowing it presents too much of a danger to humankind in the wrong hands, but my thoughts do not linger on the deliberations of the holy men. I am wholly consumed by the beast's remarkable accounts, along with the whisper of the absolution he holds close to his heart; something he takes great lengths to shield from me.

Though, it is not enough. He knows of the prophecy.

 _Have you been waiting for me?_ I mentally converse with him.

Sighing heavily, he hangs his head _. Yes_ , he admits reluctantly, _I have been waiting for five hundred years_. _The fallen of my kind have been attempting to kill you for centuries for the prophecy alone._ _Those of us who know of it were forced into hiding._

 _Do you know why the first legion of the fallen want Azazel freed_?

For several long periods he stares at me in surprise, before hesitantly answering. _Do you really not know, brother?_

I take a stiff, impatient breath through my nose, alerting the priests; though I pay them no regard _. Evidently not!_

 _Brother... Azazel is not fallen. He is a rogue archangel. Our father did not want to risk a second war to cast Azazel into Hell, so he imprisoned him. The demons want the spear themselves, and Azazel will have the power to wield it. It would create him to fall, but it's what he desires. As a fallen archangel he will be powerful among the humans._

I falter, blinking as though I were a human simpleton. It angers me that I never knew this information. Had I known, it would have changed everything. I would have taken measures to protect Bella from Lucifer's fallen.I would have made sure I was aware of where they were at every hour of the day, and with Michael's sword I would have hunted them.

"Why was I never told!?" I demand out loud. I am fuming, and as my irate voice echoes off the marble floors of the small room, it startles it immediately into silence.

"I'm sorry, brother," Gianni futilely offers as a consolation.

 _Michael will not allow Azazel to be freed, let alone let him venture anywhere near the spear,_ I point out to the beast after I am once again fully composed.

 _Brother, unless Michael is given orders to intervene, he won't be allowed to stop him. And if Azazel wields the spear, it would render even Michael powerless against him,_ the beast reminds me, causing me to immediately still as I recall Michael's parting words to me several hours earlier. The spear will give me the power to kill every archangel if that was my intention.

"Why would Azazel only become fallen? Why wouldn't the beast be sent to Hell _?_ "I ask aloud, my frustration making my voice harsh and abrupt, and at the sound of it, the priests halt their deliberations and slowly turn toward me and the demon guard.

 _That clause is a part of the prophecy and only for the one it ascribes to,_ Gianni answers me internally. _An angel, whether a guardian or archangel, would fall and become like me. And like me, they will only be sent to Hell if an angel destroys their physical form._

I take a stiff breath; I'm fuming, but my frustration overrides all emotion. I'm beginning to suspect one of my beasts has led me astray. How perfectly every scene unfolded to get me to this point. How Isabella was taken by the right demons; in fact, Ramuell took her directly to Abaddon's lair. The one demon who aspires to have Azazel freed.

It was entirely too convenient.

"Are you attempting to play Judas with me, Gadreel?" I put to the beast bluntly, staring directly into his eyes in an attempt to uncover anything that he might be shielding from me.

He immediately shakes his head, looking alarmed before his eyes sever from mine and lower in submission. "I swear to you on my beloved Beth, brother, I am not," he murmurs.

"What do you know of Ramuell?" I am past conversing telepathically. A mental voice isn't as categorical as an audible one. The tremor and pitch of human speech can allude to a lot more than just words. First and foremost any deceptions. That includes the fallen of our kind, and any beast who inhabits a human form.

"I know of him, and he is sincere, brother," he assures me.

"Daniel?"

His eyes widen in surprise. "Daniel is alive?"

"Naturally!"

The beast appears flustered. "I-I haven't seen him in close to a Millennia. He and I were once close companions. We fought in the first Crusade together, but he was so tortured he eventually abandoned us. I feared he'd ended his existence."

I immediately pause. I too had fought in the Crusades, at least until Michael threatened me with death if I didn't stop interfering in human history. My last battle had been with King Richard the Lionheart against Moorish armies in the battle of Arsuf, and I sensed the demons all around me. What I had no idea of was that they were fighting _with_ us. Nevertheless, once I was forced to desert, the tide quickly turned against the armies of God. They became besieged in the holy city until Jerusalem was eventually surrendered to Saladin. "You fought in the Crusades?"

He nods, a small smile pulling on his lips as his memories become immersed by one brutal, bloodthirsty battle after another that the beast reveled in. "Yes."

"And yet they failed to recapture the holy land." I raise an eyebrow.

He takes a breath, his shoulders falling with it in evident regret. "We were considered heretics and were hunted by our fellow fallen brothers. It became too dangerous for us."

I sigh shortly, shaking my head minutely to myself. These beasts have been as tormented by their incarceration over the centuries as I have been.

"Has Daniel been helping you, brother?" he puts to me after a pause.

Meeting his gaze once more, I nod. "He has."

"His clairvoyance is advantageous. He was always able to warn us when our dark brothers closed in on us—"

"His clairvoyance?!" I demand, pulling up short as my voice rises, once again silencing the room as all eyes come to rest on me and the beast.

Why did I not know about any clairvoyance?

Gadreel nods hastily. "Yes, brother. He sees the future."

I feel my expression darken so much the devil subtly cowers away from me. "Are you certain of Daniel's sincerity?" I ask once more, as my palm squeezes around the hilt of Michael's sword.

He nods again, this time with rising alarm. "I am positive of it."

"And yet he deliberately kept his foresight from me," I relay to him.

"He kept it from me for decades as well, brother. He was forced to. If the first sphere of fallen know of it they'll force him to serve them," the beast attempts to explain, but I only shake my head dismissing him. Then reaching over and grabbing the beast by the scruff of his neatly buttoned shirt, I draw him close to me.

"He could have _warned_ me. He _didn't_ ," I seethe.

The master of the keys arrives, breaking my attention from Gadreel. I release him.

The man, in his early forties, is immediately intercepted by one of the bishops, before he notices the good Pontiff before him, and all but prostrates himself at his feet.

Then he sees me, and this time I do not bother to calm his thoughts.

It's truly amazing how a human can immerse themselves within the holiest city in Christendom, yet the sight of anything even remotely synonymous with the faith makes them react so violently.

This man turns sheet white and promptly vomits all over the Persian rug of the foyer.

Childbirth notwithstanding, vomiting is the most disgusting of all bodily functions that I am forced to endure. Fortunately, like being born, it is something that only occurs once every fifty years; when I grow my wings. I will purposely not eat for days leading up to my transition for that very reason.

I truly resent the infirmity of my incarceration. That like the humans I am forced to emulate, I am so utterly vulnerable to death.

Recoiling, I turn away as my gaze rests on the Pontiff's. He notices my aversion.

"I apologize, my son," he murmurs to me.

" _Angelo_ ," the vomiting key-keeper attempts to utter repeatedly as the demon Gianni drags him out of the room.

 _Humans_... I muse to the Pontiff telepathically, to which his smile broadens in a way that suggests I have amused him.

But before the good Pontiff is able to open his mouth in audible response, the entrance door to the reception room bursts open and a dozen heavily armored men file in the room; their glock pistols and submachine guns all pointed at my head. One guard leads a canine that freezes mid-growl, before it immediately screeches in apparent pain and cowers behind its handler.

For several long periods I gauge them, smirking from what they're desperately trying to conceal from the holy father as well as each other; that they're overrun with fear and disbelief. Their eyes flicker nervously from one another to the priests and the Pontiff, uncertain of their impending actions.

"Lower your weapons, you fools!" I order them as the cardinal and bishops in the room, not to mention the demon Gianni, all assert similar demands. "Polpetto," I address the dog with the name he gave me: Meatball. He immediately straightens in attention. _Vieni_ , I instruct him—come—and dutifully he pulls from his handler and comes to sit beside me; his tail wagging.

 _Turn around and go back to your stations. You're all drunk,_ I direct the twelve men collectively who mindlessly obey, their expressions confused and incoherent.

"Polpetto—vieni!" Meatball's handler calls him.

The dog looks up at me expectantly; his tongue hanging low from his open mouth; I smile.

He hasn't been treated well, and he longs to find a loving home. I intend to grant him one.

"Fermo," I murmur [stay] before I turn to Gadreel. _Make sure all security cameras are turned off,_ I instruct him. I've had the displeasure of being shot, and a bullet to the head can bring me down for several minutes, but at the same time, I do not want my presence to put the Pontiff in danger from any overeager humans on a quest for infamy.

Gadreel nods and elaborates internally, _I can have them all shut down from the control room, but I have no authority to do so._

I jerk a shoulder, my attention fixed to the priests; they're discussions have commenced in regards to the spear, while the receptionist cleans the vile mess in the center of the room.

Retracting my wings for the second time, I once more throw the robe over my head, pulling my arms through the sleeves, before addressing the fathers. "Stay in this room. I will return in five minutes."

And before they have a chance to respond, I turn and grab Gadreel, shoving him toward the entrance before me.

Once outside, I round on the demon, slamming him against the wall and placing the blade of Michael's sword to his neck in one motion.

"Tell me everything you know, Beast! Or God help me, I will send you to the pit and you will never see your human wife again!"


	23. Chapter 22

**The Fallen**

 **Chapter 22**

The demon lurches away from me; or rather he lurches away from the very weapon that can end any and all hope of an absolution for him.

"I swear to you, brother," he pleads with me, practically shrinking into himself in an effort to distance himself from Michael's sword as he presses himself flush against the stone wall of the corridor. "I have told you everything."

"Don't play me for a fool, _Gadreel_!" I snap. "You have been waiting for centuries for me to discover the prophecy. And your companion, _Daniel?_ "—my voice restricts around his name. "He allied himself with me _one week_ before my human was taken by Abaddon, and he was the _only_ beast in Ramuell's pack who deliberately shielded his mind from me."

He only shakes his head in a hasty, jerky motion as his wide eyes refuse to sever from the blade I hold to his throat.

"If I find out you are in any way responsible for putting Isabella in danger for this pursuit of redemption of yours, I will _gut_ you," I promise him.

His gaze lowers and he repeats his affirmation. "On my beloved's soul, I swear to you, I have not seen Daniel in a millennia. If he's aware of the prophecy, I know not."

I ignore him, listening intently for any discrepancies in his story that he might be hiding in the darkest recesses of his mind. I can find nothing. Still, I refuse to let my guard down until Daniel arrives and I can question him directly. The trust I held for him only an hour ago is quickly eroding, and I can find no valid reasoning behind why he'd hidden his clairvoyance from me other than to deceive me.

Without a word of acknowledgement I release the demon roughly and shove him down the hall. "Lead," I instruct him, pointing the blade ahead of us.

Straightening himself out, the demon takes me back beneath the Basilica and down several long corridors until we come to the control room. This is when I shove him aside, punching in the numbers of the entry's security code I'd read from his mind, and opening the door ahead of him.

 _The security system has been hijacked by spyware. Everything needs to be shut down, now!_ I order the two dozen surveillance workers, who'd immediately turned to stare at me; the baby-faced priest as one subconsciously views me.

There is a single second of silence where not a soul blinks, before in a rush of commotion, they collectively obey. Within two minutes every screen in the room has been completely shut down, while the computer system is placed on standby. _Wait an hour before booting everything back on. One hour, and not a second earlier!_ I continue, weeding out the supervisor by his mental agitation alone. "An hour—do you understand?" I put to him out loud and in Italian.

He bows his head quickly before echoing me, "An hour."

I turn back to the beast, motioning with a tilt of my head to exit the room ahead of me. Then after closing the door, I deliberately scramble the code-protected entry, locking them inside, and follow Gianni back to the Pontiff's apartment.

Ten minutes later, I descend into the bowels below Saint Peter's with the good Pontiff himself, the Cardinal, six Bishops and Gadreel. We take an elevator. It's large and brightly lit; much like the one I had taken into Abaddon's lair only a few days earlier to rescue Bella.

None of the holy men speak; though, they don't have to. Their thoughts are simmering with a quiet unease; they're fully aware of the calamity that would befall the planet if the spear fell into the wrong hands. I don't bother to place any reassurances in their minds. I am taking the spear without their permission or blessing; they have no other alternative than to trust me.

We descend five stories down until the elevator opens into a narrow hall with the Necropolis just beyond. It is dimly lit, the air is dry and close, while the stale scent of ancient decay, intermingled with tufa and clay brick residue, lingers heavily. This is despite the ventilation system that hums from various points in the ceiling.

The Pontiff exits first, followed by the holy men in order of hierarchy, and lastly the demon. I bring up the rear, my eyes scanning my surroundings closely. The vibration I had first felt in St Peter's Square is more concentrated now; a palpable vestigial energy of the dead that immediately heightens my senses.

My palm squeezes around Michael's sword; though, I don't release it just yet.

Upon the official entry I am led down a set of industrial stairs into the five story high excavated Scavi. We do not continue along the steel structured walkways designed for the few select tourists who pass through daily; instead, we descend down a further set of stairs, evidently placed for excavation workers, taking us to the stone floor of the Necropolis itself, and before Mausoleum "F".

It's a Pagan tomb; the tomb of the Tulli and the Caetenni as it is stated on the altar that stands in the middle of the interior.

The floor of the tomb is mosaic tile of twisting vine leaves, and the clay-hue color of the painted walls inside is almost perfectly preserved. Paintings of sheep and stags decorate them between the square and arched recesses that hold variously designed pots and vases.

The Pontiff doesn't linger, but with an air of steeled urgency he continues on along the poorly lit, narrow, red brick passageway that was once a 1st century Roman street.

In silent, single-file we pass four more mausoleums all rich in archaic grandeur as they are energy, until the passageway begins to further narrow; becoming constricted as the Necropolis grows in age. The walls are noticeably more deteriorated, while the air surrounding us begins to feel humid and damp of breath. The red brick is now mixed with earthen stone, while the mausoleums are considerably smaller in size and conservation.

The medium of the Scavi, however, begins to exponentially concentrate. It washes over my body of skin, standing every hair, from pore to tip, on end as a sense of disorientation and vertigo begins to envelop me.

I'm beginning to feel so suffocated my breath becomes restricted, alerting the holy men as their thoughts all coalesce toward me. One by one, from the Pontiff to the demon directly ahead of me, they turn and set their gazes upon me.

"Are you all right, my son?" I hear the Pontiff ask, while all I can see of him is the top of his white-zucchettoed head several men deep.

"I'm fine," I answer; though, the tenor of my voice is in direct contradiction to my words. I clear it from my throat softly and nod my head. "Please continue."

The company of men continue forward in muffled silence; the only sounds coming from haggard breaths due to the increasingly limited space and oxygen surrounding us.

We come to a somewhat Christian mausoleum with a depiction of Christ as the Sun God Ra on a chariot painted above. The priests do not pause but continue on. I avert my eyes at such blasphemy, lest my wings be forcefully expelled from me as I follow the simmering thoughts of Gadreel further into the growing claustrophobia of the passageway.

The lighting dims further, barely revealing the contents of each tomb we pass as the ceiling becomes substantially lower due to the intrusive foundation of the modern Basilica above. It reminds me of the tombs of the Egyptian Pharaohs, where the presence of ancient souls cling to existence by the remnants and artifacts of their lives left behind.

The same which could be said of me.

At length we reach a small clearing, where the party abruptly halts. To the right is a narrow, disjointed opening in the red brick wall, while before the Pontiff lays a small flight of stone stairs; leading to Constantine's Necropolis, I quickly discern from one of the Bishop's minds.

Through the collection of men, I notice the Pontiff motion toward the innocuous opening in the brickwork and draws closer. He points through it to a distant wall, where cloaked by the dark shadows and hidden between rectangular blocks of stone, it is just possible, even to my eyes, to make out a small repository.

He speaks in Italian, his voice hushed in reverence and with a lilting accent, "This is where Saint Peter was originally buried."

"Is this where the spear is?" I ask, when I realize I cannot dissect any further information from his mind.

He nods once, his eyes lowering in venerated respect.

I am immediately skeptical. The energy which has slowly increased in volume and intensity as we ventured through the passageway remains static, with no tangible clues that it is about to expand.

"Are you being forthright with me, Father?" I put to him boldly, shoving Gadreel aside so I can directly meet the Pontiff's gaze.

His eyes widen, but whether he is surprised or affronted I am not certain. "You would accuse me of bearing false witness, my son?" he puts to me, a smile almost warming his worn features, and a sense of shame immediately infiltrates me.

"I apologize, Father," I lament, as my gaze momentarily drops to my feet.

The smile breaches his expression before it once more falls. "You and I alone will continue on from here."

"And the demon," I contend, grabbing Gianni's arm and herding him forward.

"D-demon?" the Pontiff stammers, his head tilting fractionally to the side as a collection of murmurings bursts from the clergymen. The good father doesn't believe I am using the word in the literal sense; though, some among the priests aren't as convinced.

"Gadreel?" I raise my brows, nodding at him in emphasis to reveal his hidden nature; noting his almost internal wince at my use of his angelic name.

"Dashiel, please," the demon appeals to me softly.

The beast is ashamed.

"Good god..." I mutter impatiently at his pathetic projection of human emotion. "Do it _NOW_!"

For a moment's hesitation the demon doesn't move, his eyes steeled to mine in silent petition. Then taking a small defeated breath, he meticulously removes his jacket, dropping it to the stone floor before him, and making similar work of his tie and collared shirt. When he is bare chested, and without any of the bone shattering pain it causes me, Gadreel releases the thin-membraned appendages of his second arms.

His wings unfurl, disturbing the dust and earth, as they scrape along the decaying ancient walls that closely surround us.

For three agonizing seconds the clergy are stunned into silence before a furor erupts among them. In blind panic they scramble to collect themselves while avoiding all contact with the beast—even as he stands, head bowed, in open submission before them—while some prepare to hurl a liturgy of scripture at him.

Preempting them, I raise my hand.

"Calm yourselves. Gadreel is not fully fallen." It's an outright lie, but I do not have the time or fortitude to explain further.

"As I live and breathe, angels and demons truly walk among us," the good Pontiff suddenly blurts in evident awe, and when I turn to him his eyes are bright and animated—even as several of his faithful in the cloth cling to him in a stance of protection.

"Please, continue forward, Father," I speak to him, keeping my tone respectful.

His expression immediately quells, becoming almost sedate before he nods. "Follow me, my son."

Through the crude gape in the wall, the Pontiff leads, his fingers running over the stone as he feels his way more than he relies on his eyes.

Squeezing my palm around the hilt of Michael's sword, the blade bursts free; illuminating the small confined space in blue light. The Pontiff jumps slightly in his skin, but continues forward with no further outward sign.

The room narrows further, restricting the three of us into single file, when the Pontiff stops before the original sepulcher of Saint Peter the Apostle. The _empty_ sepulcher of Saint Peter; his remains have long since been relocated.

Here he bows his head in silent prayer, something his mind choruses in Spanish, before he recites John 3:16 aloud and in Latin, "Sic enim dilexit Deus mundum ut Filium suum unigenitum daret ut omnis qui credit in eum non pereat sed habeat vitam aeternam." [For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life.]

It appears such an odd, simplistic verse to narrate in light of the situation, that for a single period I am confused. But before I can consider it further the entire room begins to rumble, spilling loose earth over us from the cracks of the ceiling, as a large wall of stone slowly opens before us; revealing through a cloud of dust, a darkened chamber beyond.

This is when the Pontiff's recital becomes clear. The security surrounding the spear is voice activated. The good father himself being the key.

The father continues forward nonplussed, his hand covering his mouth to protect himself from the disturbed air, and as he moves further into the room, sensor lights recessed in the stone walls flick on, one by one, revealing a spiral steel staircase—not unlike those used for the Necropolis tours—leading to the story below.

As I suspected, the room below is lined with steel-reinforced marble, no doubt several feet deep. A second room is situated beyond, separated by an open door of the same material, and from the smell of freshly ground metal that pollutes the air, the door was evidently just opened along with the stone wall of Saint Peter's crumbling tomb above.

Both rooms are brightly lit, almost fluorescently so, and while the room landing the spiral stairs is bare, the room beyond holds a single, rustic-looking metal box that sits on a thick rectangle shaped pillar, no taller than four feet in height.

This is where the spear lies.

"I can go no further," the Pontiff discloses quietly, and as my gaze meets his, he immediately breaks it in submission just as his mind opens to me.

Only a truly righteous human is permitted to be close to the spear, and despite this man holding the most exalted position in all of Christendom, as well as atoning for his sins by his own admission and through the blood of the Messiah, the Pontiff's life, like all humans, has not remained blemish free.

As such, out of a deeply held respect and deference he believes he is not worthy enough to venture further.

"You are a humble man, Father," I murmur, impressed; though, it is spoken more to myself than in response to him.

Nodding his head in admission, he silently gestures me forward.

I approach slowly, noting the energy of the room ebb and flow around me. In invisible waves it surrounds me, lapping at my skin as if it's cautious of me. It's familiar, this magnetism. It is not like the medium of demons, or even the presence of the highest ranking archangels. It is something else, altogether, something more, but at its essence is Bella. Or more, my absolute love and devotion for her in its purest, simplest form.

When I reach the antique embossed brass box, generations old, I draw my breath. It's the size of a modern-day, handheld toolbox a carpenter might carry, I muse as I cautiously, apprehensively, drop my fingers to the top of it; feeling the vibration contained within through the cool, thin yellow metal.

There is no latch, or lock. There is simply a lid with a handle, and as I curve my hand around it, preparing to open it and reveal its contents, I pause.

If the prophecy is correct then the spear will give me the power to save Bella's soul. If the Prophecy is wrong I will immediately become fallen, and Bella will die with her soul indebted to _The Morning Light_.

I remind myself quickly that Michael knew of the prophecy, and at no time did he attempt to contradict it. Michael, the highest ranking angel at the right hand of God, and while he's arrogant and narcissistic, he does not lie. He doesn't need to.

I shake my head, closing my eyes for the briefest moment, before without any further hesitation, I remove the lid. Inside lays a black velvet cloth wrapped tightly around the sharp, narrow weapon roughly 11 inches in length.

My hands begin to tremble, and with clumsy, fumbling movements I unwrap the hallowed object beneath; being absolutely careful not to touch it with my naked fingers. What is revealed is a typical Roman 1st century AD iron spearhead; it's long javelin-like wooden handle having long since turned to dust.

I stare at it for the longest period; this seemingly ordinary artifact. While the energy it emits is more potent than all the angels of Heaven, there appears nothing nefarious about it.

"For you, my love," I murmur, drawing my breath in conviction and closing my eyes. "This is all for you."


	24. Chapter 23

**The Fallen**

 **Chapter 23**

Wiping all reservations from my mind, and before I can arrive at a rational argument that will sway me from this path, I reach boldly into the brass box.

I wrap my palm around the narrow base of the spearhead, preparing to remove it from its encasement, just as I am literally thrown backwards into the stone wall by the absolute power harboring within.

I collapse to the ground; my body instantly overrun with the all-consuming pain of fire. It's as if thousands of kilowatts of electricity were being driven through my veins, continually; unendingly.

Michael's sword falls from my grip and clambers several feet from me; though, the spear remains tightly enclosed in my clenched fist.

I struggle with the effort to pull myself to my feet, fighting to catch my breath, even as the fire diminishes and is replaced by wave after wave of every palpable, gut wrenching mental torment possible. It is despair, grief, and heartbreak, all amassing and concentrating together.

I feel as if I am physically drowning, while my soul has been forsaken to complete darkness; devoid not only of light, but everything that represents warmth, and the very essence of that beautiful human creature herself.

I have known the loss of my father, for thousands of years I have lived through it, but no, this is infinitely worse. This is the loss of _her_.

I see, I feel, I _experience_ the very reality of surviving her, of losing her to the worst kinds of cruelties and injustices, while abandoning me utterly and completely to the mercy of it.

The blood in my veins runs ice cold to the utter depths of my soul, until I am teetering on the edge of losing my very mind. I cry out to my father, begging Him for mercy, but no sound passes my lips. I am locked in the anguish and despair of my own imprisoned mind, where I am separated not only from the light and from my father, but from Isabella.

That's when I hear it; a razor-sharp crack that slices through to the very core of my soul. As if it were a tangible force I am thrown several feet, falling flat onto my stomach as a trail of fire spills across my lower back.

I convulse, on impulse or by reaction I am not certain, before the piercing sound once more shatters the stillness of the small, isolated room and my own mind. Again I forcibly seize as my lungs heave violently in return, rendering me without breath and frozen momentarily in shock.

Again, the deafening shrill of a veiled whip once more penetrates the plane between mind and body as it brutally ignites across my flesh.

And again.

And again.

And again.

My skin blisters and tears as blood and fluid ooze from each welted laceration. It spills to the cold marble floor beneath me, causing me to slip as I jerk instinctively in attempt to escape the trauma being afflicted on my body.

But there is no escape. Though it is a punishment of the mind, the results are as equally physical.

I am scourged, repeatedly and ceaselessly, front and back, until the imperceptible weapon tears through every inch of flesh, muscle, and sinew in my body. And still it continues, serrating, mutilating and disfiguring my human form down to the bone as I lay unmoving in a pool of my own blood and physical matter.

Yet I continue to live, to breathe; through unimaginable torture, I endure. In a feeble attempt at self-preservation, my mind shuts down. I lose all sense of self-awareness and reality around me, but still it continues; I continue.

With the physical mass of a mountain of stone, both my forearms are not only broken but fragmented. A well of cherry-red blood pours from the gaping wounds of my wrists; compounding with the marsh of blood loss around me so immense it should be incompatible with life.

With the same incomprehensible force, the bones of my feet are shattered. Through my unseeing eyes, I stare forward, as every point of impact jerks my body as if all life had been extinguished from it.

My limbs are spread, rigid and unnatural, and in a blunt force, my shoulders dislocate. My head rolls to the side heavily as blood not only blinds my vision, but pours from my mouth and nose while accumulating steadily in my lungs.

I am asphyxiating, drowning slowly in my own blood. Every breath I take is intense, unbearable pain, and yet my body instinctively pushes air in and out of my stricken lungs, even as I physically recoil; even as it gurgles thickly and is immediately extinguished.

My body is beaten and exhausted in every sense of the word, and yet mercilessly my mind begins to sharpen. Slowly, my senses center, turning me lucid enough to desire—to fight for every last breath; a last ditch effort of a dying brain to find the will to cling to life. It renders me cruelly conscious as my body painstakingly succumbs to such a remorseless death.

This is when panic begins to set it. A blind swell of acute panic that I am going to die.

"F-Father, Father, why have you forsaken me?!" I choke out in sheer desperation, drawing enough oxygen in my gorged lungs as the words die on my lips.

In a single strike of blistering-white light—that blazes from behind my closed eyes—my ribs are separated, my lungs punctured, and my heart is breached.

" _Bel-la_..." her name breaks, fractured from my lips, an agonizing, disjointed utterance as all life drains from me.

Consciousness ceases, plunging me into a vacuity of insignificance. Into a nothingness. A realm so beyond human scope that no words exist to describe it.

I am simply no more.

 **. . .**

"Stigmata."

The word floats through what appears empty vacuous space; though, there's no comprehension attached to it. It is simply a brief procession of sound.

"Stigmata." Again, spoken in barely whisper coupled with almost fearful reverence.

My eyes snap open only moments before my back arches forcibly from the stone floor behind one huge gasping breath after another as oxygen rapidly fills my lungs.

A withered face blocks my line of vision. Weary lines crease his brow, even as a set of clear, amber eyes are lit up from their depths. "My son?"

I stare dazed and disorientated into the Pontiff's eyes as a rush of images begin to project through his mind. Images which flow freely and without restriction for such a man who guards his thoughts closely. I see the horror which has befallen me. I see myself, brutalized to the point I am unrecognizable, consumed in blood, with flesh and muscle dangling like tenderized meat from my bones. I see myself violently and repeatedly jerking as I react to the continued assaults of an unseen entity, while my blood showers every surface of the small room. I see the river of blood I was lying in as I took one glutted, strangled breath after another, while the very expression on my face is one of pure terror.

"Father?" My throat is raw, my voice rustic as if it hasn't been used in weeks.

"Let me help you up, my son," he offers, slipping a pair of warm hands around me.

Clumsily, awkwardly, I allow the Pontiff to help me to my feet, before he releases me and bends down to retrieve Michael's sword. My eyes track him steadily as the peculiarity of the situation strikes me, and I blink several times, uncertain I can trust my own eyes.

Where is all the blood? I wonder, all but blurting the question out loud, as I hastily move to inspect myself; my chest and stomach, my arms, my feet...

I run my hand repeatedly over my flesh, my fingers probing over my ribs and along every contour, but it is evident not a single visible injury distorts my skin. It is as clear and blemish free as it has always been; though, coated as it is, in the dried blood and filth from my recent altercation with Raphael.

The Father moves before me and extends both hands, offering up the silver hilt of my brother's sword.

"My son?" His head bows respectfully as a warm smile lights up his face.

"Thank you," I reciprocate, taking it in my left hand.

In my right, I clutch the Roman spearhead.

As if recollection suddenly seizes me, I bring it before my eyes; staring down at the cool iron weapon that sits heavily in my palm.

The energy within appears to have sated to a low pulsating gravity which travels fluidly up my arm and into my blood stream; as if it is now an extension of me.

I squeeze my palm repeatedly around it; testing its weight in my grip, much like I did Michael's sword several months earlier. By comparison it is light and compressed, but by equal measure, it's heavy. So heavy I instinctively understand that it will ultimately destroy me.

At the same time, a sense of disorientation still lingers over me. I feel incongruous in my body of skin while remaining uncertain of my own mind.

"What the hell just happened?" I clear my voice roughly, along with my thoughts as I put the question to no one in particular.

It is the Pontiff who answers. "To wield His power, my son, you had to know His suffering."

I turn to him; his expression is staid and awash in empathy. He smiles.

Half a smile tugs at my lips in return, almost subconsciously, before my eyes retract from the good father to the demon who lurks behind him.

Gadreel stands stock still in evident shock, his mouth agape and his eyes wide and incomprehensible.

"Did-did it work, brother?" he asks, though his voice barely emits a sound.

"One way to find out," I mutter, striding toward him without further hesitation.

I cannot sit and partake in the wonder of the blood of Christ and its effect on me a moment longer. Right now time is not on my side.

The beast stands his ground, without faltering, resigned to whatever fate exists behind the end of the spear.

"Just do it, Dashiel," he urges me, his tone low and hedged with defeat as he expands his lungs; subconsciously inviting me to plunge the spear into his chest.

 _Either I will be Beth, or I will be in Hell. I am resigned to my fate. I don't wish to remain another moment in this godforsaken planet…_ his thoughts relay to me, over and over, in a seemingly ceaseless cycle. In fact, they appear to be spilling out of him, whether I choose to be privy to them, or not.

I regard him for a moment, and all but snort. How these beasts relish in their torment, in their self-deprecation.

Smirking at him, I meticulously tuck Michael's sword back within the waistband of my jeans. Then straightening back up, I shove the beast cynically; conveying my impatience, before forcibly grabbing his wrist.

Bringing the tip of the spear to his palm, I pierce his flesh, puncturing the surface of his skin by no more than five millimeters.

His breath draws sharply, and as if on impulse, he yanks his hand from my grip, cradling it in his own.

A golden light begins to radiate from beneath his skin, and from the point of entry it slowly floods up his arm. It is the same aura of light he would have emanated had he been in his angelic state, but in his state of damnation it appears to be a toxin to him; a malediction.

Seeming frozen in place, the demon begins to convulse, his eyes wide with fear as all blood drains from his face; only to be replaced by the expanding illumination amassing beneath his skin.

In panic, he battles it, his hands wrapping around his throat as he falls to his knees, choking and spluttering; struggling futilely as the darkness that's held domain over him for thousands of years succumbs slowly to the divine sanctity of light that is overrunning his body.

Reaching out he grabs my foot, turning his desperate eyes to me as he shakes his head hastily back and forth. I am uncertain of his meaning; though, as a mere witness to the perilousness of his transition, I inherently understand there is nothing I can do to stop what has begun.

"Don't fight it, my son," the good Pontiff speaks soothingly to him, marking the sign of the cross on the beast's forehead before he begins his prayers in Latin.

The demon begins to violently quake, endangering the Pontiff so much, I'm forced to reach out and drag the aging man back.

Gas begins to emit from the top the beast's head, while the veins running down his brow and temple all but physically detach from his skin as if the legion within him is protecting itself from the tentacles of radiating light that is now creeping up the beast's neck.

In panic, Gadreel angles his head to the ceiling, as if he were being submerged in water, fighting to preserve every inch of breathable air. And just when I'm convinced the pressure building within his head will cause it to explode, he effectively surrenders. The golden light completely overruns him, illuminating from every pore of his body of skin as an expression of total peace and acceptance besets his face.

For several seconds Gadreel lingers in this condition; as if he were a statue carved from smoldering wood glowing bright from the fire within, when his encasement of skin begins to split open. From the top of his head, as if by an invisible zipper, his body of flesh slowly peels, revealing the head of a tall being, made of that same transcendent radiation. And as this being of light emerges the demon's once human camouflage rains to the floor in embers that burn gold.

Before my very eyes, Gadreel, a five millennia old demon, sheds his skin, re-emerging in the physical body of the living, breathing light of God; the body of his inception; of his creation, and characterized by two brilliant white angelic wings.

Slowly, exhaustively, Gadreel pulls himself to his feet, and stretches himself to his full height. His hands are held out before him, slowly rotating back and forth as he inspects them closely; the look of astonishment on his face so absolute it is almost comical.

"Mother of God," the Pontiff utters in amazement as his eyes rise to the ceiling.

He appears to have detected the medium of the approaching archangel, too, I ponder, just as Gabriel himself arrives. He's dressed in full battle armor, in the same ambience of radiation; in the same fundamental particles of light that reconnect him to Gadreel.

"Brother," Gabriel warmly addresses his fellow angel with the bearing as if they were only parted for a week.

" _Brother_ ," Gadreel echoes, his expression compromised by so much emotion he appears on the brink of tears.

It is possible for angels to cry; though, it's not something that happens often.

"Dashiel," Gabriel turns his pleasantries to me as his eyes dart cautiously to the spear that remains in my right hand.

I scoff softy to myself. "Nice ensemble, brother. Is that for my benefit?"

"One cannot be too vigilant," the angel answers candidly, turning his gold eyes on the Pontiff.

"Father," Gabriel addresses him with a nod, as one does a close friend, and for one extended moment the good father appears utterly speechless.

"My-my son," he stammers, extending both his trembling hands to the angel, who takes them naturally.

"Watch that blood pleasure," Gabriel murmurs, his smile growing in sincerity, before he once more turns his attention to me. "Godspeed, brother."

I nod, when without warning Gadreel suddenly throws his arms around me, drawing me close to his celestial body and the unfathomable warmth of that eternal light. Something I remain disconnected from.

"Brother—thank you," he whispers as his voice softly wavers.

"She's there. She's waiting for you," I relay the information Gabriel had attempted to conceal from me the moment he appeared; my voice reflecting the revered nature of something so close to the former demon.

An utterance bursts from him, a sound that exists in the planes between a sob, a laugh and a gasp, as he once more appears on the brink of losing all emotional control.

Coming from a Host of the Lord it is a disconcerting thing.

"Careful, Gadreel, your brother Gabriel, here, is going to lecture you all the way home," I slyly confess, as Gabriel himself immediately straightens out beside him, his eyes widening and turning hard in both outrage and disbelief.

 _I can read every thought you've ever held, Gabriel. You can't keep me out, now_ , I mentally forewarn my brother, who only harrumphs in grudging acknowledgement.

Gadreel laughs as a now scowling Gabriel stands closer to him, merging their energies together, before in a flash of blinding brilliance, they are gone.

Beside me the Pontiff audibly expels his breath, grabbing my attention. He's smiling broadly, his expression bright, despite the element of shock that clouds the edges.

"Thank you, Father. I have to leave, but I promise you, I will return the spear before the three days have expired." I move to pass him when he grabs my elbow.

"Wait, my son. How about a, er—what is it called—a _selfie_?" His smile widens, and I'm beginning to think this entire experience has robbed him of his faculties.

"A... _selfie_?" I repeat blankly, almost laughing even as confusion envelops me.

In response the good father pulls an Android device from a hidden pocket in his cassock, holding it out in obvious emphasis. "Your wings?" He raises his eyebrows in elaboration.

"Humans..." I mutter only fractionally beneath my breath. Complying regardless, I release my second arms, bracing myself for the inevitable torture behind them. My wings shoot through my scapula bones swiftly and effortlessly, and wholly without pain that for a single moment the complete lack of it feels more profound than all the four thousand years of relentless torment they've caused me combined.

In a matter of seconds they unfold and extend, rising high above me and the Pontiff, whiter than the snow peaked mountains of Switzerland.


	25. Chapter 24

**The Fallen**

 **Chapter 24**

The spear has awarded me with all but limitless power. A power that now flows through my veins; a power I am inherently aware of. As if I have always been in possession of it.

It has rendered me completely infallible, but if I attempt at any time to turn the spear on myself, it will kill me instantly. The clause is irrevocable. By harnessing the power within it _will_ eventually kill me. I will fall completely and my soul will be sent to Hell. There is no thwarting that.

For three days, however, I will be virtually indestructible. I'll have the ability to control the planet's elements and all heavenly bodies. I'll have infinite strength and speed; giving me the capability to kill any member of the fallen or Angelic Host. The spear will grant me the power to resurrect any conscience-bound demon in the same order as Gadreel, or send one permanently to Hell, as well as heal the sick and dying, and raise the dead.

And there won't be a beast, angel or human on the planet whose mind I cannot breach.

That includes Bella's.

 **. . .**

I leave the Vatican City with my thoughts so focused on returning to Isabella, that I don't initially realize when I penetrate her mind.

It's a mind that shouldn't be so familiar to me, but it is. It is a mind _intimately_ familiar, because it is a mind literally immersed with images and memories of me. And to see it, to hear it, for the first time in the thousands of years since she was created, almost paralyzes me in shock. In fact, it has such an impact on me that I falter mid-flight and practically fall from the sky.

With the veil that has shielded Bella's mind from me now lifted, I can read her thoughts and see through her eyes despite the thousands of miles that still physically separate us. Her mind is as clear to me as if she were before me; as if I were never blind to her.

Every thought, every whim and memory that's passed through Bella's mind is projected back to me. Through her eyes I see her first encounter with me; of standing in the filthy back alley, bare-chested with my grey wings outstretched, before four dead humans. I see every moment after; of the six months we spent together in her bedroom in the convent, and I see the dreams she had before I found her. Her dreams which are undeniable memories of her first life when she was my _Isobel_.

Through the opaque imagery of her sub-consciousness I see myself in my original state of being; an angel in earthly form, black haired, gold-eyed, and unusually tall for such historical restraints, with pale skin that glowed with the transcendent light of my creation. And through every life she led, no matter how brief, Bella dreamed of me; she remembered me. Even as an infant before the beasts feasted on her soul, and even as she lay in her mother's womb, she dreamed of me and that remarkably short but profound encounter we shared together when I was her guardian. Through Bella's submerged mind, I witness, I relive, every action that caused my banishment, but it goes so much beyond seeing, I can also _feel_ her emotions. Through her I am able to comprehend with total sentience the magnitude of her feelings for me.

She loves me. She's _always_ loved me, and even though the gravity of it confuses her, and at times even scares her, to her it is still absolute. Unlike me, she doesn't attempt to intellectualize it; she simply accepts it.

I realize, incredibly, that she has always been drawn to me, as much as her very existence has bedeviled me. She is drawn to me so utterly that through every one of her deaths at the hands of the beasts her infant mind subconsciously called out to me.

Through four millennia of living she has held onto my memory, even when the vast majority of those years were spent in repeated cycles of fetal development.

As a human she is extraordinary, but she is still only a human. It is without precedence and beyond comprehension. Humans, by their very nature are not designed to bear anything so infinite, but this has never applied to Bella.

She has always been the exception, and though I will never understand the significance behind it in relation to me, I know there isn't a single thing under Heaven and Earth that I wouldn't do for her.

 _Edward_... her mental voice laments, full of tortured despair that it pulls me immediately from my thoughts.

She's consumed with worry for me. A fear that is tearing her apart. This is despite my father's best efforts to put her at ease for both her physical and psychological well-being.

"I'm here, my love. I'm coming back to you," I reply to her subconsciously out loud.

 _Edward!_ There isalarm and evident relief in both her audible and mental voice as she responds to me. _Are you okay? Where are you?_

 _I'm fine. I'll be there soon_ , I promise her using my telepathic voice. _I'm going to return your soul to you, sweetheart._

Her breath gushes from her. I hear it as though she were right beside me, and I can all but catch the scent of it in the air.

 _How can you hear me?_ She asks, and she's smiling; I can feel the warmth of it expanding within my chest. In fact, I can feel every particle of her as if she were the very wind on my face.

 _I'll explain everything when I arrive. Just hold on a little longer, okay_? I reply, closing my eyes and envisioning her delicate features in my mind.

This one incredible human girl who forced me to not only reevaluate the meaning of my own creation, but of hers. The girl who made me cherish the very premise of humanity all by gazing into those hypnotic hickory brown eyes of hers. Eyes that betray her own youthfulness, while illustrating the sublime nature of her very soul.

Her soul that I am willfully prepared to sacrifice my own continuum to restore, because her one human life is worth more than an eternity of mine.

Isabella is born both of the living light and of flesh, while I was born only of the light, and I was always created to be her servant.

To belong to her.

 _I was so worried, Edward,_ she continues, the tremor of her audible voice softly conveying that very concern. _Daniel left so suddenly, and he looked so freaked out!_

Daniel!

At the mere mention of the beast's name, my thoughts center on him as his exact location becomes known to me.

He is not five miles out from the Vatican City, and his mind brimming over with an unsettled anticipation. The demon is both anxious and full of hope for me, and there is no indication of his foresight, or any deceit in regards to Bella. His thoughts and memories of her appear benign, and track no further in the past than the several hours he'd spent in my parents' home after I'd left.

Turning from my present course, I head back toward Rome with the intention of intercepting him.

I reach him within two minutes; descending upon him from a mile above. He doesn't see me coming; the beasts can no longer sense my proximity.

He becomes aware of me the second before I have him by the throat, and by the speed at which I have traveled the force of my body mass as it impacts him shatters his neck.

I force him to make landfall three miles south-east of Rome in San Lorenzo, on the roof of one of the many square towers of the Aurelian Wall; the defensive structure named after the 3rd century Roman Emperor.

The beast is paralyzed from the neck down, and the instant I release him his body slumps, his limbs limp and inert against the ancient brick-faced floor.

"I'm going to give you the courtesy of asking, _beast_ ," I seethe, my voice low and threatening as I bend down to him and grab him once more by his slackened throat.

His eyes are wide, and what's evident even without the need to read his thoughts is that he's wholly confused by this sudden shift in my behavior.

In response to me he nods his head hastily. "Brother—" he attempts to appease me, when I steadfastly cut him off.

"DID YOU SET BELLA UP SO I'D BE FORCED TO LEARN OF THE PROPHECY?!" I roar out the question as the anger behind it simmers to the surface and for one precarious moment threatens my restraint.

His eyes widen still, his confusion blatant as he shakes his head adamantly back and forth. "Brother, I swear to you. I knew nothing of the prophecy until yesterday."

"One way or another, beast, I _am_ going to learn the truth," I promise him, pulling Michael's sword from within my pants and unleashing its blade. "And if I discover that you've crossed me, it will be _this_ blade that I drive into your chest." I hold my brother's weapon up, emphasizing my threat, before directing it to the center of his forehead and allowing it to sear his flesh.

He flinches away from me as the desperation behind his pale eyes multiplies. "Brother, _please_..."

I'm past questioning him, and without another word, I breach his mind.

The demon undoubtedly has clairvoyance, and through his second sight I see the future; a power the spear has not bestowed upon me.

He has foreseen me transforming the beasts, and through his eyes I see myself returning hundreds of them back to their original state of being. And while his sight is not extended to his own future, he sees all five members of his pack restored to the spheres of the Angelic Order. From Ramuell, to Asbeel, to Jacob; the beast I'd met in rural Nebraska.

He sees the moment the spear destroys my physical body, with Bella slumped over me hysterically screaming and shaking my unresponsive form.

Bella...

He also sees Bella, but not only as the nineteen year old girl as she stands today, but a beautifully matured woman in her third decade of life.

A woman who is married; married to a man she has children with.

I immediately sever my probe into his mind as my heart seizes. For a moment the shock renders me suspended as I impulsively step back—as if distance can erase what I had just witnessed—and almost lose my footing.

This man she marries, he resembles me. His hair is the same shade, he's roughly the same height and build, and the bone structure to his face is similar, but he is _not_ me.

While an unusual element of him looks like me, the majority of him does not.

He is fully human.

I shake my head roughly back and forth, wanting desperately to rid the images from my mind, but the visions of Bella, lovely and whole, are too significant.

Yet, Daniel's foresight is a reassurance, a safe-guard that I will succeed in restoring Bella's soul and enable her to go on to live a full life, but...

It's a life I am evidently not going to be a part of.

I huff to myself impatiently and beneath my breath. Of course I'm not going to be a part of her life. In three days I will fall completely. My body will die and my soul will be condemned to Hell, taking Bella's place.

"Do you see, brother?" Daniel speaks up as he awkwardly pulls his healing body up by his elbows, and there is an affinity to his voice; as if he can empathize with me.

I don't reply. I can't; no words form in my mind. All I can see is Bella and this male, happy; _unmistakably_ happy.

Bella—twenty-something Bella—her stomach rounded and protruding with the twin infants she will bear him.

I drop my gaze to my feet as the weight of it—the raw ache of it—begins to amass in my chest. Again I only shake my head, but this time it's out of the shock and despair of utter defeat.

"I knew how you'd react, Dashiel; I had to conceal it from you," Daniel further explains his reasoning as he slowly pulls himself to his feet.

Lifting my eyes, I catch his gaze, but break it again almost immediately. His eyes that have seen too much; I cannot bear to look into them.

"I'm sorry, brother," he murmurs, as his hand comes to rest on my shoulder. "But you save her. Because of you, she will live the life she has been denied for centuries."

My head drops, this time mechanically, as my eyes steel to the spearhead in my grip. Squeezing my palm around it, I raise it before me as if I mean to examine it closer.

She will live...

Isn't that all that matters? Isn't that why I am freely sacrificing myself; so Bella can live?

Did I honestly expect her to live in celibacy? To join the sisterhood and remain in the convent? To not find a mate? Did I assume she would remove herself from the very basis of humanity?

Is that what I want for her? To live in loneliness with no family, to not experience love—real love as it was preordained—all because I selfishly cannot conceive of the idea of her giving herself over to another man?

 _Go forth and multiply_ ; that's what my father instructed them to do, and Bella was _always_ destined to be a part of His great design.

She was never intended for me, and the very reason why she has suffered alongside me through four thousand years of this stagnating existence is because I wrongfully attempted to claim her for myself.

Before the spear destroys me, I have to let her go; I have to allow her to live the life that was destined to her before I intervened.

I continue to stare down at the spearhead for so long it starts losing its form behind my mounting tears.

I haven't shed tears in two millennia—tears that have stemmed from emotional pain, at least—not since I was baptized, and while they fall freely, I'm not prepared for the pain that accompanies them. Or the outright helplessness that begins to awaken within me. That while I presently hold more power, save the creator of the universe, I have zero control over my own fate.

Or Isabella's.

"Can you forgive me, brother?" the beast momentarily breaks me from my preoccupation, his voice sedate but submissive.

My gaze severs from the spear to once more meet his as I hastily wipe away my tears with the back of my hand that remains gripping the hilt of Michael's sword. Daniel holds my eyes steadily, even as his brow draws in accumulating pain.

He pities me. It is so palpable that I don't need to read his thoughts to recognize it, and it's a mockery.

He's a fallen demon. He created the abomination that caused our father to flood the planet. It was _his_ kind who were meant to be pitied; who were cast out without any hope of redemption.

Not _me_.

No, I was cast down to Earth with the knowledge that my grace was salvageable. I was supposed to save Bella _as well as_ myself.

It was _never_ meant to come to this.

I am suddenly fuming by the sheer injustice of it. The poetic irony of all of it. That I would have had more hope had I become fallen like the beast before me.

The demon, Daniel, whose expression begins to deepen with unease the longer I remain silent and locked in the simmering furor of resentment.

The beast's aware of the danger he's in, but before he can collect his thoughts to contemplate an escape I raise the spear and plunge it deep into the base of his neck where it curves to meet his shoulder.

He immediately freezes, his mouth falling open, his body becoming rigid as his eyes widen and stare fixed to me; filled with betrayal.

Compared to Gadreel, Daniel's transition is more accelerated; taking only a tenth of the time for the chains of his damnation to be stripped from him.

I can only conclude it was due to the fact I'd pierced him closer to his heart, but in less than thirty seconds Daniel, a resurrected angel, stands before me.

For the longest pause he stares down at the remnants of his demonic form that remain heaped around his feet before he kicks it from him in blatant disgust.

He's so repulsed by it that I invoke a sudden breath of wind that swiftly casts away the still burning ash and embers.

His head snaps up as if he'd just recalled that I am still in his company. For the longest period he only stares at me; his expression immeasurable by the depth of emotion.

"Brother..." he utters, his voice so frayed by sentiment it's disjointed.

I shake my head hastily, impatient to move beyond his displays of gratitude before Gabriel arrives. "She still has no guardian, Daniel. You need to be that for her. Especially when I'm gone. _Promise_ me!"

He nods, his staid gold eyes holding steadfast to mine. "You have my word, brother."

I nod in return, releasing my breath and allowing my head to hang for a fraction out of the sheer weariness that still lays before me, before my thoughts once more focus back to Bella.

But before I am conscious of the next second, my heart is seizing behind my ribs

She's screaming for me. Her voice is high-pitched but straining and overrun by genuine fear as it slices through my mind; turning the blood in my veins to ice.

 _HELP ME, EDWARD. I'M DYING!_


	26. Chapter 25

**The Fallen**

 **Chapter 25**

The spear has given me unlimited speed and strength, but I am still bound by the laws of physics. Theoretically, I could travel at the speed of light and reach Bella instantaneously, but with infinite speed, by body would become infinite mass. I could cause catastrophic damage to the planet, putting not only Bella at further risk, but every living soul in existence.

To travel at light speed, I would have to become light, like my brothers of the Angelic Host. As flesh it isn't possible; at least, not without dire consequences.

I push my speed to orbital velocity, traveling twenty times the speed of sound. It should take me ten minutes to fly from Rome to Connecticut before slowing my descent so I don't cause a giant crater where my parents' house is located.

With every breath I take I fight the urge to fly faster, to get to her sooner. She's in trouble, I understand this inherently, and it isn't only _her_ mind that confirms it.

For two minutes, Bella screams out to me, both her mental and audible voice seeped by absolute fear and panic, when she suddenly falls quiet.

 _I'M ALMOST THERE, BELLA! PLEASE HANG ON JUST A LITTLE BIT LONGER,_ I plead with her repeatedly, but I'm unable to tune back into her.

I am suddenly as blind to her as I have been for four thousand years.

"ISABELLA!?" I roar out into the higher latitude of the stratosphere, where I'm been flying to avoid commercial aircraft, but her mind is now completely silent.

In increasing despair, I sever my focus from her and center it on my father.

My father's thoughts have always been sedate and disciplined, so to feel him so anxious and filled with confusion only validates my fears.

Through his eyes I watch as he administers CPR on an unconscious, unresponsive Isabella, his mind relaying the last several minutes back to me as he attempts to procure a reasonable explanation for her sudden decline. She was in the living room with both him and my mother, chatting easily over lunch, when without warning she started to convulse as an eruption of saliva began frothing from her mouth.

Her heart was in arrhythmia, my father quickly ascertained, which progressed to Atrial Fibrillation, and then cardiac arrest.

This is when my father's thoughts became foreign and flooding with alarm, as he yelled at my mother to bring him his automated external defibrillator before he began CPR.

I arrive eight minutes later, landing on the section of road directly in front of my parents' house. I impact the ground with so much force I cause a deep compression in the asphalt that buckles the entire street, before I extract my wings and burst through the front door; taking it off its hinges.

I'd deliberately broken the connection with my father's thoughts as soon as I learned that Bella's heart had stopped. My panic for her had already become so deeply ingrained that it was compromising my self-control. I simply couldn't fly back to her under so much duress; at least, not without destroying the planet in the process.

Perhaps if I'd kept that junction with him, if I'd witnessed Bella deteriorate myself, I might have been better prepared for what I returned to.

Why Bella's mind has always been sealed to me has forever been a mystery. It's something that has never been explained to me even as I was cast out of Heaven in retribution for my actions against her. Nevertheless, even as a half-cast angel I could still sense her soul; the life-force that held sovereignty over her fragile human body. It was undeniable; the essence that unendingly called to me through time and space and every boundary that separated us.

It's the first thing that's impressed upon me the moment I am confronted with the utter blasphemy that is Bella's expired human body; the absence of that very essence.

Isabella, my kindred soul, whose very creation awakened the humanity within my own existence, dead.

The reality of it stops me short, and for what seems like an eternal pause, I am suspended in shock. Bella, pallid and grey, her torso naked, her right breast half-covered by the large blue defibrillator pad, as she's shook repeatedly behind my father's efforts to find some kind of arterial activity, is gone.

It is almost dreamlike and completely inconceivable.

It's a moment captured time and again in the motion pictures the humans have made over the last century. The protagonist in the film, frozen in place, as time ceases and sound becomes muted and echoed, while he stares in horror at the scene before him.

" _BELLA_!?" I hear my own voice holler her name, the fear in my tone causing a frequency that threatens to shatter the two tall windows that align the front of the living room. Then, before I am rightly aware of my own actions I lunge toward her.

" _Bella_!?" I repeat, pleading with her as I roughly gather her in my arms. "Don't do this, _please_."

Her body is still warm, but she is lifeless and completely yielding against me.

"Son!" my father speaks abruptly from beside me as he forcefully lays his hand on my shoulder. "Let me—"

I shake my head with impatience, dismissing him outright, as I lay Bella in the crook of my arm and bring the spearhead to her naked chest.

Age has eroded the iron, and the edges of the blade are jagged, the tip blunt. It will take some force to plunge it deep into Bella's body, and for one moment I pause, unable to move. Fear, or perhaps premonition, has stalled me, staying my hand, before I blink and the moment is shattered. Then without further hesitation I penetrate her skin, forcing the spear between her ribs and into her heart.

I hear my mother's voice cry out, aghast at my actions. It reflects on me more than I was expecting, but not in the same context. It feels like an affront to afflict damage on Bella's little body, and repelled, I promptly extract the spear.

A spark has ignited beneath her flesh which beams for a breath or two, before it dulls and is extinguished. The puncture wound the weapon has left is completely healed, leaving her skin unblemished, but Bella remains unmoving, her heart still.

"Bella!?" I shake her, and then again in growing frustration, but there is no response. All life has left her, leaving her a corpse lying pitifully listless in my arms. "ISABELLA!?" My voice rises, turning hoarse in sheer desperation.

"Son..." my father repeats. " _Edward_."

I turn to him, but I am blinded by confusion and the horror of a whispered nightmare. "No," I simply state, shaking my head stubbornly. "No! I-I can resurrect the dead. I can return her soul—NO!"

I lunge to my feet, cradling Bella's inanimate body in one arm, and with the other I once more bury the spear into her still form. Again a light appears, burning the post-mortem wound closed and healed, before the radiation is quenched; leaving Bella unaltered.

"Why—why isn't it working?!" I burst, beginning to sound as irrational as I can feel myself becoming, before again, I pierce Bella's cooling body. And then again.

To no avail.

Where Bella's heart is motionless, mine beats in rapid succession, circulating my body with blood that feels as if it is burning my flesh. Burning it with the pain and realization that I've lost her.

That I've failed.

For too long I stand clutching Bella's lifeless body to me as shock and disbelief slowly lays my heart to waste. I glance down at her; her head is hanging back at an alarming angle, her mouth open as her long dark hair spills over my arms. She looks as if she were in a deep sleep, waiting for me to wake her; only beneath her chest her heart and lungs are completely still. Her soul is taken.

"Edward," my father's voice once more asserts as he physically turns me to face him.

In response, I nod once—though I am no longer sure of his meaning. Mechanically, I kneel down and carefully lay Bella's body back on the floor.

My father immediately continues to work over her; though, his thoughts betray him. He's a cardiologist, he knows no human heart can withstand the damage I have just inflicted on Bella's; even as he internally debates with himself over the significance of the weapon I used, and why I used it.

His deliberations, as well as his efforts, are in vain, though. We both know it now. I've lost her. I let her be dragged to Hell.

"Don't fear, my love. In three days I'll be joining you," I speak aloud, numbly, my voice devoid of any emotion as I drop to my knees and bury my face in my hands.

Never in my four millennia of living have I ever fallen into this amount of wretchedness. Into this amount of anguish. My heart aches as it never has before; it is so relentless I feel as if it is consuming me whole.

"God... help me," I utter in the pain and torment of acceptance, just as I break apart. " _Isabella_! I'm sorry. Please forgive me!" I exclaim helplessly as tears descend in rivers down my face, drowning me in despair.

There is nothing left for me now. My sacrifice has been in vain, and my cries will go unanswered; just as they have always done. I've been long forsaken, and now my human girl has paid the ultimate price for it.

I slump to my hands and knees, my forehead thudding the floor as the spear releases from my grip. The pain in my chest feels as if it is literally tearing my soul to shreds, and in complete surrender I allow myself to fully succumb to it.

One engulfing, breathless sob after another strangles from me. I've heard the sound of human heartache for centuries. It's not unfamiliar to me, but for one single moment I almost don't recognize my own voice behind it. That this inexplicable grief is spilling from _me_.

"I'm so sorry, honey," my mother's voice, soft and tender, penetrates the barrier of shock I am locked in as I feel her arms wrap around me.

Her touch momentarily breaks me from this helplessness, and I shake my head as denial begins to descend upon me. Denial that quickly becomes anger, and anger that turns to blind fury as I steadfastly refuse to accept the reality that Bella has been taken from me.

Reaching out I once more grab the spear, squeezing my palm around it, as the rage coursing through me causes every molecule of my flesh and blood body to tremble.

In the next instant I spring to my feet, and open my mouth as thunder and lightning erupt from me. "DAMN YOU, _I AM_! IT'S YOU WHO'S THE DEVIL. YOU WHO UNLEASHED THE DEMONS ON THIS WORLD, AND YOU WHO WATCHED FOR CENTURIES AND DID NOTHING! IT'S YOU WHO'S THE MONSTER. YOU, WHO'S THE _ULTIMATE_ BEAST!"

I scream and curse at my father until the sun is eclipsed and the world is plunged into darkness, while the very ground beneath my feet quakes violently; shaking the house and its foundation until the walls and ceilings crack.

"Edward!" My father grabs me by my upper arms and shakes me. "Son, STOP!"

But still my tirade continues, as I spew forth every sacrilege my soul can withstand until the words fall silent from my lips in exhaustion and defeat.

With my lungs heaving, I turn and stare into my father's clear blue eyes, but the momentum of anger and despair has not yet consumed me. I continue to resist, to hold steadfast to denial.

In the continued haze of disbelief, I look down at Bella lying in her death sleep, while dust and fragments of drywall rain down upon her semi-naked body from the cracked and buckling walls of my parents' house as the ground beneath continues to tremor.

It is incomprehensible, and squeezing my eyes shut from the horror of it, I bring the spear to my brow, pushing it against my skin as I attempt to make sense of this. To make sense of why the spear failed to revive her. Why _I_ failed her.

"I-I saw Daniel's visions. Bella was alive. She-she was married and she had children," I ramble to myself, beginning to sound incoherent. " _DANIEL_?!" I suddenly roar, startling my mother so much she jumps into my father's arms. "WHERE ARE YOU, YOU _BEAST_?!"

He appears almost instantly, arriving in the middle of the debris in my parent's living room in his body of flesh. He looks exactly the same as he did when he was a demon; medium brown hair, his eyes grey as opposed to gold as they appear in his body of light, and standing just over six feet in height.

I have him by the collar of his ranking tunic before he can open his mouth to address me. "You _promised_ me she would live," I accuse him in a fuming whisper before placing the edge of Michael's sword to his jugular vein. While I can kill him easily, he fears becoming fallen again; something my brother's weapon will undoubtedly cause. " _WHY ISN'T THE SPEAR WORKING!?_ "

"Dashiel, listen to me," he begins, his voice straining behind his evident unease. He understands that his very existence is in more danger now than it has ever been. "Her soul is in Hell, and Hell is the one place where the spear has no domain."

" _HE_ has power over _EVERYTHING_!" I explode at the affront of it.

"He gives them free will, and Isabella willingly sold her soul," he attempts to rationalize with me, but it only incenses me further.

Removing the sword in frustration, I grab him by the throat, bringing him further to me. "The beast _tricked_ her into it."

Unable to move, it's his eyes that betray his alarm. "They trick them all into it, brother, but they still have to give their souls away freely. It doesn't matter that a demon was impersonating you, Bella was fully aware of what she was trading."

"Will the beast release her soul?" I squeeze my fingers further around him, restricting the airways he doesn't require. It's futile; I can kill Daniel's human form with my bare hands but he can return with another.

"Yes, but you know it will be at a price," he admits, lowering his eyes as I release him, shoving him backwards.

"Inform Lucifer I'm coming to see him!" I demand, pointing the spearhead at him.

"He will never speak with a member of the Host, brother. You will need to get a demon to summon him," Daniel answers, his eyebrow subtly arching.

" _Abaddon_ ," I rage to myself in a murmur. Then turning my back on the angel, on my parents, and on Bella, I release my wings and exit through the front door in the same motion, before launching myself into the sky.


	27. Chapter 26

**A/N: I thought I could put all these chapters up yesterday as well as fix what was missing from one of them. Hahahaha! I'm an idiot.  
I probably should have mentioned in the prologue that this is a repost instead of chapter 1. Again, idiot. *sighs***

* * *

 **The Fallen**

 **Chapter 26**

I arrive in the small Welsh town within minutes before impacting the cover of Abaddon's lair, Diablo's, with the force and destruction of a missile.

I burst through the roof and the two main floors of the restaurant, landing feet first on the cobble-stone floor of the basement as the building implodes and collapses around me.

Without extracting my wings, I leap past the pyre of destroyed wine racks. Fermented liquid rains over me, dampening my hair and stark white feathers as I slam my fist into the section of the wall that shrewdly conceals the entrance.

The stone door is immediately reduced to rubble as a thick veil of dust momentarily separates me from the fluorescently lit corridor where the elevators are situated.

Out of a very human habit, I cough, averting my face to prevent my lungs from filling with debris, when several of the beasts' talon-like hands grab and rip at the flesh on my chest and shoulders. Their claws repeatedly serrate through my skin, which instantly heals, as they futilely attempt to prevent me from advancing further into their master's den.

Their efforts are in vain; they can no more hold me back than they can the tides of the ocean, but their offensive has only angered me further. Grabbing the first demon my hand catches, I drag his head back by a handful of his filthy long hair and bury my brother's sword down through the base of his neck and into his heart.

The beast's demise is mirrored by every fiend who's ever found himself at the receiving end of Michael's sword. He is ash before I can release the blade, and in the same volatility I use it to disable each member of the demon's guard, one by one.

But still they come, as if their numbers are endless, and as my patience severs along with my rising fury, the beasts in their scores suddenly burst into flame and ash without me so much as raising Michael's sword in their direction.

This is when I understand; I don't need my brother's weapon. I wield ultimate power, and my mind alone is more capable of sending the demons back to the pit than any number of angelic armaments.

I walk steadily, impassively, passing through the thick, noxious smoke of the expired demons and continuing to course with a convening anger. The beasts now flee on sight; though, as I advance further into the catacombs of Abaddon's lair, I track their movements by their thoughts alone; slaying them the instant I catch their dark animus.

After peeling back the steel floor of the elevator with the ease as if it were the skin of a piece of fruit, I drop, descending down the shaft to the gateway; to the unseen barrier. I pause for no longer than a second before I breach it; the protective barricade instantly yields, breaking over my bear chest as if it were a cobweb. I descend into the first chamber and enter the makeshift nightclub. Hundreds of demons continue to violate damned humans just as they did the first time I was here, and again they are oblivious, or more unfettered, by my presence.

I halt for a breath in the darkened, blood-hued antechamber, catching sight of a young girl with long red hair no older than Isabella. She is propped up in a corner booth of ink black leather as an ashen-haired, coal-winged beast defiles her adolescent body. Her head is slumped back and angled toward me, while her blank, unseeing eyes stare blindly ahead.

Aware that my attention is centered on him, the demon slowly turns to glance over his shoulder, and for several long periods he only stares comically at me; becoming fully aware of his fate

"We'll meet in Hell soon, _brother_." His resignation concludes with a promise as a sneer pulls at the corners of his mouth, and just as he erupts into burning ash.

"I hope so," I murmur, my gaze remaining steadfast on the girl.

In evident shock and confusion, she lurches from the seat, her head whipping around rapidly in panic before her widening eyes rest on mine.

 _Your soul is returned to you, now go. Leave this place and this town and never return,_ I mentally instruct her _,_ and without pause she obeys; fleeing from the room as high-pitched screams burst from her.

I release every human in the same manner, sending them fleeing from the underground crypts they have unwittingly found themselves in as one by one I return the demons back to their overlord.

All too quickly I discover that while Michael's blade will grant them an instant, relatively merciful return to the underworld, my mind isn't as benevolent.

In varying degrees of time I allow their human forms to fester and burn, delaying their inevitable demise and listening to their desperate cries of agony from behind me as I continue forward to Abaddon.

The fiend is now well aware of my presence, as well as the path of destruction I have left in my wake, and while he makes every effort to conceal his mind from me, he cannot. In fear and panic he awaits me; a coward to the end, surrounding himself in human children along with his guards.

I reach the door to the beast's den, reducing it to dust without lifting a finger. Then meticulously stepping over the resulting debris, I find myself standing before him.

Without a word I penetrate his mind, discovering that he had not only robbed Bella of her soul, but he had poisoned her in order to assure her rapid decline. He was well aware that the odds of me beating Raphael to free Azazel were slim, and had assured himself a recourse. With Bella alive he had less to bargain with, but with her dead and in Hell and Lucifer aware of the prophecy of the spearhead...

I in the possession of the spear is exactly what he'd hoped for, but he too hastily miscalculated. He knew the spear would make me powerful—enough to kill an archangel—but he believed he and his coven of devils would be immune to its power.

He was wrong, because while the spear holds no domain over Hell and any of its inhabitants, it has absolute power over Earth and all who dwell here; humans and demons alike.

"Where does he want to meet me?" I demand after I consecutively reduced his guard to ash before him, allowing him to witness the delayed process of their fall.

It was a question I need not ask; the answer is readily available in his now accessible mind, but I intend to torture the beast, and not just physically.

The soft, timid sound of whimpers breaks my focus. My eyes drop to the half a dozen children the fiend has surrounded himself with. All stare up at me with fearful, doe-like eyes.

While a demon cannot take the souls of children, through their parents they are able to bewitch them and keep them under control. Abaddon has been using these poor helpless infants as slaves until they reach age of consent. It's different for every child, but it usually happens around the age of fifteen.

"Come," I murmur, motioning to them with my fingers, and without delay they adhere. "Don't be frightened. Your parents are waiting for you. Run, go find them."

En masse they exit the room, their shrieks of excitement echoing throughout the stone chamber. Most of their parents I have released from their damnation; though, more than several will find themselves orphaned.

A little girl, no older than five, however, remains; she takes my hand even as hers trembles. I gaze down at her, and she stares up at me with eyes that rival the depths of Bella's.

Her useless, incompetent guardian hovers near; I force the beast to become visible and standing before me he bows his head in shame, his stark white feathers hanging low.

"How could you allow this?" I demand in a cold whisper, placing the child's hand in his. "You are not fit to be a guardian!"

He nods once in complete submission before leading his child out.

I watch them leave, smiling warmly at the small girl who glances over her shoulder and waves in farewell. Her innocence and ocean-deep brown eyes remind me so profoundly of Bella that for a single second I am able to convince myself that she's still alive.

A second that ends as inevitably as it began, and breaking my gaze from the child's I set them on the cowering demon before me.

"My father will not take kindly to the massacre of his sons," he attempts to preempt his fate, but with complete disregard I only snort. Then meticulously, I raise the spear before him; allowing him to see it, to absorb its image. To reveal my plan for him before I execute it.

He flinches, turning his head away from me as he shakes it in growing panic. "You wouldn't!" he dares me, his eyes wide and pleading in futile desperation.

Abaddon is a first sphere demon, cast out along with Lucifer himself. It wasn't a carnal love for humans that saw him condemned; it was the ultimate act of betrayal against our father, Himself. Amidst the chaos of the war for Heaven there was no time for retribution. Once defeated, Lucifer was swiftly cast out before his legion followed of their own volition, without ever receiving a day of reckoning.

That's exactly what I intend on granting the beast.

I round on him, coming within millimeters of the beast's face and being flooded by his fetid breath. "You have killed my human and condemned her to _Hell_ ," I seethe, bringing the spear to his forehead and pressing the tip of it against his flesh without breaking the surface. "You think there's _anything_ I _wouldn't_ do to avenge her?"

He only continues to shake his head, but ignoring his silent pleas, I reach down and grab his leg, yanking him from his feet. With slow, deliberate movements, I strip the beast's Italian made shoe and cashmere sock from his right foot, smirking at his very human vanity, before dragging the spear over the top of his smallest toe, barely breaking the crust.

Immediately the light of creation begins to penetrate him as he begins to screech loudly, cursing and blaspheming both mine and our father's name.

Unlike Gadreel and Daniel this is not something Abaddon desires, and he fights his transition like a screaming banshee, shuddering and twitching as his own demonic configuration reacts violently to the very essence of what he willfully turned his back on centuries ago.

Calmly, I raise my thumb, marking the sign of the cross on the beast's forehead as I administer to him the last rites in both Hebrew and Latin.

"May God have mercy on your soul," I finish, my voice completely void of emotion as he falls to his back and continues to convulse while the tar-like blood from his faux human body is projected from every orifice.

I'm unsure how long it takes for the demon to succumb to his angelic incarnation, but it's at least an hour before he's subdued long enough to stop struggling. Still, the divine light of God continues to permeate him from his core to the surface of his skin while the horror of it is muffled to only a reflection behind his eyes.

I smile, enjoying his ordeal a lot more than I anticipated, before at length, a conquered, subjugated angel is bowed before me, swamped by his own burning physical matter.

On his hands and knees he glares up at me, his now gold eyes seeped with ferocity. In a single movement, he lunges to his feet and grabs me around my throat.

I shrug him easily from me, placing my palm to his shoulder and slamming him into the stone wall. "Behave, he'll be here soon," I deliberately taunt him, only moments before Michael drops soundlessly beside me, the expression on his face nothing short of murderous.

"He's all yours, brother," I state calmly, as Michael turns his eyes on the beast, a sneer creeping coldly on his lips.

I turn my back on them both just as the harsh metallic sound of Michael's sword being released from its scabbard pierces through the steeled silence of the air.

"If you even think of freeing that beast, Dashiel, you will have to face me!" Michael issues his threat from behind me as I continue back down the passageway away from Abaddon's lair.

"Is that your way of talking me into it, brother?' I reply lightly, without turning back to him.

He harrumphs as the newly transcended angel begins to scream obscenities in my direction; only to be immediately silenced by his ranking superior of the Angelic Order.

Michael has waited thousands of years to exact his revenge, and I'm happy to grant it to him. As for freeing Azazel? It's the last of my concern. Right now, the most feared creature in all human imagination awaits my arrival.


	28. Chapter 27

**The Fallen**

 **Chapter 27**

Contrary to what has become archaic human lore, Hell is not situated at the core of the planet, four thousand miles below the earth's surface. Nor is it another planet, altogether. Rather, it is a dimension of Earth, completely inaccessible to the physiology of a human being; no matter how advanced their technology might become.

Hell exists on only one layer; its emperor knows what you fear most, and his rule over you is absolute. Very few humans have ever been plucked from its pit; the gatekeeper will not readily relinquish any of his souls. He keeps them close, like coveted gems. Only his designs for them aren't as pure.

Bella will be a very rare exception, because I refuse to leave without her.

Angels can, and have, taken the spirits of humans on a sojourn to both Heaven and Hell in the quest to warn their fellow brothers and sisters, and while such narratives have become popular novels, they remain in the hearts and minds of the cynical most as works of fiction.

Like humans, earthbound demons can be sent to Hell without the possibility of redemption, as I have demonstrated numerous times, and while the souls of humans often find themselves forsaken to the bowels of creation, living, breathing human beings are the exception; they cannot enter.

This rule would also have applied to me, but with the power of the spear, I can now transcend my physical form and cross the planes into the realm of Hades. Or rather, I will be crossing into the stratum that lies between the earth and the underworld.

To become light has always been within the parameters of the spear's power, yet I wasn't aware of it until this very moment. The longer I wield the Spear of Destiny the more its powers are revealed to me. Had I known I could eclipse my physical form, I would have been able to reach Bella instantly and prevent this all from happening. It's as though the hand of God Himself is intent on punishing me.

The spear wields no power over The Morning Light nor his domain, however, and if I were foolish enough to enter Hell itself he could quite easily prevent me from leaving. I have no intention of giving him that chance, but meet him I must.

There are several gateways throughout the planet that lead to other dimensions, but there is only one to Hell. And rather poetically, the entrance lies beneath Death Valley.

 **. . .**

After departing from Wales, I arrive in the barren valley of Eastern California almost instantly, and once there it is simply a matter of finding the porthole; something, I instinctively know is within the lowest elevation beneath Badwater Basin.

Without pause, I plunge headfirst into the highly saline body of water, and almost immediately, I find myself coursing through a tunnel of condensed white light.

In the next breath, and returning to physical form, I find myself standing in what appears to be the Death Valley Basin's salt flats, with the Panamint Mountains before me; only I am no longer in California. I am no longer on what is known as Earth.

While this plane is brightly illuminated in sunlight, there is no visible sun, nor is there any warmth. And though in all intents and purposes the laws of gravity seem to apply, there is no life, no oxygen, or sound; it appears to be an illusion, or perhaps a vacuum. A vacuum that causes a piercing ringing to my human ears.

I glance around repeatedly, attempting to center my focus and rid my senses of the increasing incoherence this sterile, vacuous space is affecting me with. This is when I notice him.

From a distance a single figure draws near. A blood red figure who almost appears to coalesce within the gradient of a mirage at the base of the mountains—something I know cannot possibly exist. A figure moving steadily toward me, and as he closes the distance between us the ringing in my ears grows louder and more intense.

It is a figure of a man, an angel, who existed in a time before my creation, but a face I know well from the minds of members of the Host who knew him; who fought against him.

The very first angel to be cast out of Heaven. An angel with no wings.

Once he is within range where I can clearly discern his face, he smiles; catching me immediately off guard. While tall and unsettlingly handsome, with hair so blond it almost appears white, and strikingly intense sky blue eyes—much like the hue of my own—this being appears benign in every sense of the word. Though, as innocuous as he might seem, I inherently understand it is a façade, and something my senses are not lured by; they immediately heighten, keeping me on guard.

"Dashiel," he greets me, broadening that same smile. His voice is whiskey smooth, while the very act of speaking appears to disrupt the continuum of the landscape. It flickers like the static of an old analogue television, becoming a grey-tinged, white void.

And as it does, the ringing in my ears ceases.

On impulse, I falter, almost instinctively taking a step back, but the demon's demeanor does not change. He remains completely at ease as he pulls out a chair, from a set of two before him that I had not noticed before now.

He takes a seat—in the metal chair that resembles one found in a hospital cafeteria—crossing his legs at the knee and glancing up at me expectantly. His clothes are crisp and unblemished; a suit in the color of overly ripe cherries.

"Please," he offers, gesturing toward the opposite seat and once more directing that unnerving smile at me. "I won't bite."

I regard him for a further second or two, and again at my surroundings, before cautiously sitting myself across from him. I leave my wings extended; though, I am unsure I would be able to take flight in this realm if I wanted to.

In my right hand I continue clutching the spear, resting it against my thigh subconsciously. And while the creature does not look directly at it, it is evident he's tracking it closely. It is the only indication that he isn't as at ease as he wishes to appear.

"So, how should I address you?" I begin abruptly with a hint of sarcasm in my tone. "Beelzebub? Demogorgon? Little Horn? Son of Perdition?" I raise my brows, mocking him further, but neither he, nor I, are under any illusion that my reaction is anything but a cover for my increasing apprehension.

He observes me for a brief moment, his expression becoming shrewd, when to my surprise he laughs and waves his hand in disregard. "I go by no such names."

Then, before I can reply, or even get my bearings, his gaze breaks from mine and lowers. I watch him, feeling my forehead deeply crease as he rummages around in his pants pockets with both hands; pulling out a cigarette, and from the other, a metal lighter.

"Smoke?" he offers me, holding out the cigarette he just produced, and before I move to shake my head in answer, he pushes it between his lips and lights it.

"Shall we begin?" he asks me, after drawing back on the tobacco heavily and releasing a cloud of smoke in my direction.

"Begin _what_?" I challenge him. "Either you return Bella's soul to her body, or I will gut every beast on the planet, and completely thwart your battle plan—or better still," I add slyly, leaning forward in my chair, "I will send them back to Heaven like I did one of your _generals_ , and let _our_ father deal with them."

For the briefest of moments his expression darkens, and in it I see what nightmares are made of, but before he allows it to completely contradict his calm bearing, it vanishes.

"Clever, Dashiel. _Clever_ ," he acknowledges, nodding his head at me once and again drawing back on his cigarette. "Isabella is settling in well," he adds offhandedly, before showing me a mental projection of her.

A projection of her that immediately causes the blood running through my veins to turn to ice, before I all but roar out into the void with the utter agony that one image alone causes me. It was the image of Bella being defiled—violently, brutally defiled until blood pours from between her legs—by me. By the physical embodiment of me.

Bowing my head and squeezing my eyes closed, I take a volatile breath, attempting to pull myself under control while resisting the absolute urge to strike down the one angel it took God's army to conquer.

"It's not her body," I assert, unsure whether it's for the devil's benefit or for my own.

"It's what she desired," he explains simply as if it were completely arbitrary.

"Release her!" I demand, struggling to maintain my composure, snapping my head up and locking my gaze with his. "Release her now, or I _promise_ you, you stinking beast, you won't have a single ally remaining on Earth after I'm done with it."

"If you release my brother, I will release her," he barters casually, drawing in another long breath from his cigarette.

"No deal! You will release her without exception. You think I'm not aware of your planned offensive? How well do you think it will execute without an army?" I put to him, but it is from a presence of building desperation.

The beast will not give up Bella willingly.

He pauses, eyeing me carefully; leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees without severing his gaze from mine. "But the question is, do you value your human more than I value my _offensive_?" he asks, with complete indifference, as though it holds no importance to him whatsoever.

He is, as the humans would say, fucking with me, but I refuse to engage with him and allow him to circumvent me with his cunning.

"You've revealed your hand, _brother,"_ I say, _"_ and I've been around your minions long enough to have read every detail of your plan in their minds. Listen to me very carefully, I am _not_ making _any_ deal with you. If you don't release Isabella, I will send Azazel back to his maker!"

I'm met with silence as the beast continues to scrutinize me; more scrupulously this time. Several emotions appear to pass through his expression, from irritation to amusement, before some manner of gratification wins out and he laughs.

"Do you know how much I relish in torturing the humans who are sent to me?" he states casually, and in complete disregard to my declaration. " _Physically_ torturing them, I mean. Ripping their flesh from their bones," he smiles perversely before half concealing it behind his hand as he places the cigarette between his lips; taking another deep pull into his lungs. "But..." he adds, pausing to exhale heavily, "even the paltry human psyche will eventually become immune to physical pain." He shrugs, placing his first two fingers to his temple with the cigarette loosely trapped between them, and tapping several times. "After, it's all up here."

"Release her, beast— _now_ , or I swear I _will_ burn every last one of your foot soldiers!" I reiterate my threat as he elaborates on his meaning, placing image after image in my mind of Bella engaging in all kinds of obscene sexual acts with the human in Daniel's vision; the human who bears an uncanny resemblance to me. "S-stop!" I stammer, squeezing my eyes shut in a futile effort to shut it out, but the beast only continues, embellishing upon it, revealing to me the vilest, most repulsive carnal acts that even the deepest part of my testosterone-driven subconscious has never before conjured.

"What's the matter, Dashiel?" he mocks me through evident laughter. "You don't enjoy seeing Isabella's husband going down on her? Shoving his large cock up her anus."

"I said _STOP_ , YOU FILTHY BEAST!" I roar, lunging to my feet and turning the spear on him, preparing to plunge it into his chest.

In response the devil violently recoils backwards, as if by impulse, almost losing his footing as he hisses at me like some clichéd vampire in a black and white horror film.

"Keep that _thing_ away from me!" he warns me, as his composure crumbles before my very eyes. He glares at me, his blue eyes hard and full of malice as they pull from the spear to my gaze and back again, repeatedly.

I hold my ground, staring him down, as I contemplate his reaction. He continues to cautiously maintain the distance between us, while his chest heaves in and out furiously.

He fears the spear, but to what extent I am not certain.

"If you don't release Bella, I will bring fire and brimstone upon your legion, beast," I again repeat my warning, my voice quiet; my eyes steeled to his. "You yourself know I have _nothing_ to lose."

"This is true," he concedes, instantly transforming back to that eerily impassive bearing. "I'll tell you what I'll do," he adds, once more taking the seat before me and smiling graciously; it chills my very blood to the bone. "I'll give Isabella a reprieve. I'll release her to you now, and once you free my brother, I will fully pardon her."

"No deal!" I reject him without hesitation. "If you insist on keeping her, you will lose any chance at your _precious vengeance_. By the blood of Messiah, I will make sure of it!"

The beast visibly blanches, his expression turning hard and menacing. "Do _not_ utter that name before me," he threatens me in a caustic whisper.

"Which name? _Yeshua Ha Machiach_?" I taunt him, repeating it in Hebrew, and holding the spear up in emphasis.

In a flash the beast rears up at me, his lips curling back from his teeth as he moves within a shadow of me. "Do not test my patience, Dashiel," he warns me slowly.

"Don't test mine," I echo without emotion. "I'm damned to your pit no matter what I do, but if I'm coming, I'm going to drag every member of the fallen with me."

He straightens up, tilting his head a fraction as if gauging my words, before lightly slapping my cheek with his palm. "And I would be powerless to stop you. Although, what fun we could all have after..."

"It's my final offer. Take it or leave it," I reply, shoving the devil from me forcefully.

He smiles again as if my actions were stemmed from affection. "I'll go one better," he alludes, reaching into his pocket and plucking out another cigarette. "If you free my brother and promise not to harm another member of my family," he breaks momentarily to light his smoke, "I will not only release your human, but I'll release you, as well."

I immediately freeze, pulling up short. "W-what...?" I stumble over the word, my voice all but failing, but this is when I understand. The demon's desire to exact vengeance on my father supersedes both me and Bella, and in order for it to be executed successfully he needs Azazel to head his army of demons.

Azazel in possession of the spear.

"Well? What say you?" he raises a brow, his grin now growing broad.

"Release Bella _now_ , without clause—whether I keep to your agreement or not. Only then will I free Azazel, and I won't lay a finger on your beasts," I counter offer, holding my breath as I await his final answer.

He grins artfully in evident vindication, while his eyes spark ominously in warning. "As you wish." He waves his hand dismissively. "She is free, but if you break my contract, Dashiel"—in an instant he surges to his feet, coming within a fraction of my face as he deliberately draws the scent of my breath into his lungs—"It will become my personal mission to make sure you suffer through every second of eternity."


	29. Chapter 28

**The Fallen**

 **Chapter 28**

The instant I leave the stratum and pass back into Earth's dimension, I feel Bella's soul; her _unmarked_ soul, and while the immediate relief I feel is so overwhelming that I almost drop to my knees, it quickly turns to alarm.

She's screaming.

Bella is screaming in horror and seemingly without any control while both her audible and mental voices are almost completely incoherent.

" _OH, GOD, HELP ME_!" she cries hysterically, over and over, as her thoughts project ceaselessly with the horrors she was subjected to in Hell; of her young body being repeatedly and savagely desecrated by the demon she was led to believe was me.

"Of course the filthy beast would make sure she retained her memories," I mutter bitterly beneath my breath as I launch myself into the sky and turn to head back to my parents' house in the northeast of the country.

As light, I arrive within seconds, almost physically recoiling from the sound of Bella's continued screams, before I retract my wings and burst through the door-less entry.

I find her crouching tightly in the corner of the living room where the dust and fragments of drywall still litter the floor and pollute the air. She remains half-naked, shuddering violently with her arms up around her head, shielding herself from my parents who hover close by her. Their hands are raised apprehensively, their voices soft and soothing as if she were a startled foal.

"Edward!" my mother bursts in open relief when I move to stand beside her.

"Son, she simply came back to life," my father explains, the awe and excitement palpable in his tone, "but she seems to be in some kind of shock."

I don't reply to either of them; instead, I approach Bella cautiously, remaining conscious not to make any sudden movements, before kneeling down in front of her.

"Bella, sweetheart," I speak gently to her, tentatively reaching out and placing my fingers gently to the back of her hand.

She immediately flinches, practically convulsing against the corner wall as her screams become almost deafening. " _DON'T TOUCH ME! OH, GOD, HELP ME! PLEASE HELP ME_!"

"Hey. _Hey,_ " I speak softly, appealing to her. "Bella, look at me."

She only shakes her head roughly back and forth, continuing to violently tremble, while her heart slams at an alarming pace against her ribs.

" _Isabella!"_ I state more firmly this time _. "Look at me."_ I take her hand, prizing it free from around her, but she resists, her breath drawing sharply in genuine fear.

"Edward, I can sedate her if it would help," my father offers staidly from beside me.

"No, she just needs me to help her come out of it," I insist, and without releasing Bella's hand I squeeze it in reassurance. "Bella, you're safe. It _wasn't_ real, and... it wasn't _me._ It wasn't me, baby _."_

For the longest moment, she doesn't respond; she only continues to cower away from me, when she suddenly gasps as though she were recalling something significant. But her mind is so fragmented I am uncertain what.

"D-Dash-iel?" she stammers over my name, fearfully tilting her head to glance up at me. Her eyes are wide and stricken with terror, and when they meet mine, only fleetingly, the pain and horror within them increase.

"I'm here. It's me," I reassure her, releasing her hand and cupping my palm gently to the side of her face, tilting it to fully meet her gaze. "Do you think I could _ever_ do anything like that to you?"

She shakes her head in answer, but even as she does, her eyes dart around the room as if she cannot fully trust her surroundings. "It wasn't real?" she puts to me in a shaken voice.

"It wasn't real," I reiterate, even though it was _very_ real, but in this dimension it was no more real than a nightmare.

"It w-wasn't you?" she stutters as a shudder ripples through her small frame. Her wide, afflicted eyes fasten to my face, and she pauses, appearing to scrutinize my every feature.

" _Of course_ it wasn't me," I promise her, and almost impulsively, I lean forward and plant my lips to her forehead. She jumps and immediately turns rigid, but only momentarily before she slowly yields. "It wasn't me," I repeat in a whisper against her clammy, but no less, warm brow, as relief more than anything else floods my senses.

"Make it go away, Edward. _Please_ ," she begs me in a small, timid voice as she buries her tear-streaked face against my bare chest. "Please..."

I pull her further to me, resting my nose and lips against the top of her head and breathing the sweet scent of her in. Then raising the spear, I place the tip of it momentarily to the center of her forehead. "It's gone," I murmur.

The air in her lungs immediately gushes from her and she cocoons herself further against me, taking several heavy breaths as she calms. Then, without warning, she suddenly pulls back to meet my gaze. "Edward!" she bursts, her voice shrill and startled, yet almost breaking with emotion. "You're here!"

"I'm here," I reply, uncertain whether I'm about to laugh or start sobbing when she suddenly wraps her arms clumsily over my shoulders and presses her delicate lips to mine.

She kisses me repeatedly, laughing as she does, while it takes every fiber of my restraint not to completely succumb to her. Still, it's not easy, and very deliberately, I ease her back.

"Oh my god!" She bursts into tears. "I-I've been so worried. What happened?"

"Everything's fine," I assure her, running my fingers over her cheek and through her hair. "You no longer need to worry."

She only continues to stare at me in obvious confusion for several seconds. "So... we can get married now?" she puts to me with uncertainty

I falter, unsure how to answer when my eyes break from hers to fix on the spear.

"Of course we can," I mumble before I again find myself gazing into the depths of her deep brown eyes.

A slight frown had begun forming at her brow, but as her eyes meet mine, it vanishes, becoming replaced with a broad smile that completely warms her face.

 _Why does she have to be so beautiful_? I find myself wondering. Even wearing her amulet, I am still drawn so profoundly to her.

"How do you feel, honey?" my mother asks her, immediately breaking me from my straying thoughts.

Bella's eyes shift behind me as her expression appears to mirror the confusion I can feel coming from my mother.

"I feel fine. I-I'm not sure what happened. I was eating and then I started choking..." her voice trails off, and her forehead knots further in consternation as she recalls the events that led to her death.

I shake my head, and placing my hand to Bella's cheek, I shift her focus back to me. "Don't think about it."

She stares at me for a moment, covering my hand with hers. Emotion is beginning to overrun her expression; emotion I can read in her thoughts. "The angels didn't kill you," she whispers.

I smirk despite myself. "They would have liked to."

An immediate spark of pain reflects in her eyes, and while she smiles in return, I know she finds no amusement in it.

"Is it really over?" she asks with the sincerest hope that my heart silently clenches.

"It's over—just let me look at you for a moment," I murmur, running my hand down to her chin and tilting her head from one side to the other as I inspect her neck. Unlike mine, it's not marked; it is completely blemish-free.

I let go of my breath silently in relief, before pulling myself to my feet and hoisting her up into my arms.

"What are you doing?" she asks, cocking a dubious eyebrow.

"There's just one more thing I have to take care of, but right now I want you to rest." She rolls her eyes, and opens her mouth to protest when I cut her off, "And my father wants to check you over."

"That's correct," my father confirms, following me toward the stairs where I'm heading to lie Bella back down on my bed.

With her memories of Hell erased and all concerns for her future behind her, Bella is once more the impulsive, carefree twenty-year-old she was when I found her. She begrudgingly allows my father to examine her, which includes drawing blood and reattaching the pads of the defibrillator to her chest to check her ECG.

Still, her thoughts aren't as forbearing, and while my father takes every care not to come in contact with her breasts, more than absolutely necessary, he sparks imaginings within Bella's mind that cause me to immediately leave the room.

I take a shower, a cold shower; though, even in another room, Bella's mind is not far from my own. I'm certain she's aware of my ability to breach her thoughts and is deliberately projecting certain images to me.

It's frustrating and completely maddening, and more so because I am fully inclined to engage in every one of her fantasies with her. What's infinitely worse, is I am allowing it to subvert my own reason.

To have sex with Bella would put her life in very real danger, and it still remains one of the unbinding clauses of my existence.

While I am in possession of the spear, however...

Shaking these thoughts from my mind, I turn off the shower, pull a towel around my body and hastily dry myself.

I run into my father in the hall with the towel still wrapped loosely around my waist.

"I'm not going to guess how any of this came about, son, but from a clinical standpoint she is in perfect health," he relays to me, shaking his head in silent amazement.

I smile at him, finding momentary amusement by such a stoic man in so much awe, before severing his gaze and running my palm to the back of my neck. "She's fine now," I assure him, nodding once to myself; my eyes locking to the spear in my right hand.

"What is this weapon you're carrying?" my father questions.

Raising my head, I again meet his eyes as my expression knots in confusion. I keep forgetting that my parents were not long ago staunch Atheists. "You know the story of the crucifixion?"

"Somewhat."

I hold up the spear, raising my brows in emphasis, and smirking subtly when realization descends on him and he balks.

"Good god..." he mutters, shaking his head in amazement and almost chuckling, before he almost immediately becomes serious again. "You never once complained that we never attended church as a child, Edward. Nor attempted to convince us to the contrary."

"I didn't need convincing, and I knew you and Mom would figure it out on your own. Especially after I left," I answer.

"Why _did_ you leave?" His brows draw as he recalls the painful memories of burying an empty casket.

With sudden guilt, I let go of my breath heavily, remaining conscious of the very real pain he and my mother went through. "I'm sorry, Dad. I had no choice. Once I grow my wings the demons become aware of my identity. I couldn't put you and Mom in that kind of danger."

"Yet you returned with demons in tow." My father raises a contradictory eyebrow.

"They're somewhat"—I smile slightly to myself—" _unorthodox_ demons." Though, they won't be demons for long. I still have a legion of them to resurrect. "Besides, once Michael handed his sword over to me, they fled from me on sight."

"Michael...?"

Breaking into an immediate grin, I scoff past it. "Go read up on it, Dad." And placing an affectionate hand on his shoulder, I walk past him and back into my bedroom.

Bella is sitting up cross-legged on top of my unmade bed. One of my t-shirts hangs from her slim shoulders, and as soon as she catches sight of me, still dripping wet, a towel fastened to my hips onehanded, she arches a very deliberate brow.

I only smile wryly at her in return before disappearing behind my closet door and hastily pulling my legs into a clean pair of jeans. I don't bother with a t-shirt; I'll be taking flight again all too soon.

"Okay, you," I say with a sigh, tipping her chin with my finger after sitting beside her on my bed. "Keep this on," I motion to her amulet, "and don't do anything reckless until I return."

Her expression falls, becoming as fearful as it does disappointed. "Where are you going?"

"I told you," I remind her, placing my palm to the curve of her neck. "I have one more thing to take care of and then I'm all yours."

She nods, chewing on her bottom lip as her thoughts begins to stray. I shut them out this time; I cannot allow myself to get carried away by her. "Okay," she eventually mumbles.

"I _promise_ you, Bella," I vow, tilting my head to catch her gaze and running my thumb gently over her baby smooth skin just below her ear.

She smiles slightly, nodding a second time as she reaches up and grabs my fingers. "I believe you."

"Okay," I echo her previous statement before breaking into a grin; it's without reason, and simply because she's smiling broadly at me. "What?"

"Are we really going to get married?" she asks skeptically; she doesn't fully believe it.

"Having second thoughts?" I put to her lightly.

She scoffs softly. "No, but I'm recalling all those lectures you gave me back in the convent about how _dangerous it would be for me"—_ she imitates me—"if we ever became _intimate_."

I take a conceding breath, releasing it into a hum, and elaborate, "It _would be_ dangerous, Bella, but..." And before I can finish my thoughts begin conceiving certain possibilities as if acting on their own accord.

I immediately pull up short, shaking it from my mind and feeling my face darken by my own perverse desires.

"What?" she presses me, tilting her head fractionally to the side.

"Nothing," I mutter, unable to meet her gaze because there is simply no way I can tell her I was contemplating the idea of making her infertile.

"Edward..." she continues to probe when she pauses. "What's this?" she enquires, her expression sparking with curiosity as she runs her fingers over the twin marks at the base of my neck. "I thought you don't scar? It looks like you've been bitten by a vampire."

"Something like that," I admit with a smile, subconsciously covering the evidence of the beast's contract with my palm. With my other, I drop the spear on my bed and take Bella's hand. "I don't want you worrying about anything, okay?" I raise my eyebrows to stress it further, only to hear the questions she wants to continue pestering me with formulating in her mind.

I need to distract her, and with nothing left at my disposal, I kiss her.

I kiss her long and deep and with more intensity than I have ever allowed myself to experience. But god help me, I relish in it so profoundly that it quickly threatens my self-control. My senses heighten and expand in ways I have never before encountered, reminding me again of the very real, innate drive of the human body I am forbidden to fully utilize.

My skin begins to burn, while that awakened primal desire pushes almost painfully into my groin, enlarging my anatomy as it urges me deeper and further.

Several times I attempt to gain my bearings and pull out of it, but Bella draws me back in, opening her mouth to me and enslaving me as if I were fully under her charm. I fear my very reason is conquered and my body has assumed command.

My hands as if independent of my brain, pull her further against me before they move to explore her firm yet supple female body. She is so soft, so fragile and yielding, and yet every impulse within me yearns to take control; to push her to her limits.

And that's when it abruptly ends. As my mind fully surrenders to my body's most fundamental purpose, it without any warning or rationality, conjures a projection the beast himself showed me. A projection of the demon replicating my image to defile her.

On impulse, I jerk away from her, my breath heaving in my lungs from both the absolute repulsion of it, as well as my body's continued physical response.

Subconsciously, I pick up the spear, wrapping it tightly in my fist and pressing it to my forehead as I attempt to gain my equanimity. I'm confounded that I allowed myself to lose so much control. My first instinct has always been to protect Bella, and that very awareness always remained at the forefront of my reasoning. But this time it was completely absent.

"I-I'm sorry, Bella, I..." I utter, shaking my head in further confusion and refusing to meet her gaze.

"Edward, it's..." she pauses and places her palm to my cheek, encouraging me to look at her. "It's _okay_ ," she stresses. "I'm not quite sure what's changed you to this extent, but it's okay. Really, it is."

Reluctantly, I meet her wide, slightly flustered gaze and snort my breath softly in irony. "I'm not sure, either," I confess my confusion.

She smiles and it quickly broadens, becoming teasing and more or less to herself. "You don't kiss like you're a ten-thousand-year-old virgin."

I practically choke. "I've only been human for four," I counter in a strange display of human pride. "Actually, I've only been of consenting age for three."

Bella's brow quirks and she regards me for several moments in what appears to be bemusement, and because I'm unsure I can trust my own instincts anymore, I breach her mind. She's contemplating what kind of event has forced me to "get in touch with my human side" to this magnitude, but by the same hand, she very much appreciates it.

"It's very disconcerting to be able to read your mind," I muse aloud when Bella's eyes immediately widen in dismay.

" _What_? You can read my mind now?" she declares in disbelief as her face flushes, and she suddenly appears irritated. "You told me you can't—did you lie to me?"

I open my mouth to explain when huffing brashly, she pointedly averts her gaze from me; her expression now set in anger.

"It's because of the spear," I hastily disclose, holding it up in further emphasis.

"What is it?" she asks awkwardly, her eyes wary, and I know what's going through her mind without the need to read it; she believes I have infringed upon her trust.

Amidst all the turmoil of the last twenty-four hours, it didn't occur to me to explain to her the powers the spear has awarded me, and after four thousand years of being blind to her, the ability to now see and hear her thoughts was simply too tempting.

"It's... Let me demonstrate," I say, and gently taking her hand in mine, I turn it over, before only fractionally, piercing the center of her palm with the tip of the spearhead.

She draws her breath in sharply just as her mouth falls open in complete astonishment while her expression quickly floods with emotion. A moment later, she cups both her hands over her heart and bursts into tears.

"Oh my god," she whispers, turning her stunned gaze to me only briefly before she glances beyond me and around my room; her head shaking slowly back and forth. "I can see your guardian angel, Edward. He's waiting for you."

And through her eyes, I see him also; though I have been aware of his presence since the moment her soul was returned to her. He stands in his body of light, at least eight feet tall as he watches quietly, observing the both of us. Only he isn't here for me; he's here for Bella.


	30. Chapter 29

**The Fallen  
Chapter 29**

By dusk, I set out once again for Israel.

Both Bella and my parents know nothing of my latest venture, and I prefer it that way. I've attempted to stay out of Bella's head out of respect for her privacy, but my parents on the other hand, are a different matter. I have become so accustomed to being aware to their subconscious that their thoughts are as familiar as my own. It brings me no comfort. They're both engulfed with the very recent grief of burying my memory, to the elation of my return, and finally to the lingered whisperings that they will lose me again; that my eventual death is an inevitability.

I have no words of wisdom or reassurances for them because they're right. It is, and it tears at the very fabric of my soul.

After planting my lips briefly to Bella's, I leave through the kitchen sliding door as casually as if I were heading to the garage to go to work.

I'm agitated and restless; something which has nothing to do with what lies ahead of me. I don't feel quite right, and my body of skin feels almost foreign to me—which is ironic, considering that's exactly how it's intended to feel. Instead, it feels light and almost pulsating as I continue to course with the constant magnetism of arousal.

While I'm half angel, I'm still human; a young human at my sexual peak. I've spent more years in this state of being than it was ever intended for humankind.

As a guardian angel who takes human form, we're equipped to overcome any temptations of the flesh. Or at least we were designed to. But as an angel born into the flesh, I am governed as equally by my angelic senses as I am my physicality.

Every hormone, every impulse, and instinct has always driven me forward to procreate. To succumb to the very basis of humanity; my body's most fundamental purpose and the one thing I have been forbidden to partake in. I'm intimately familiar with the impulses and inclinations that often overrun all logic before I'm forced to rein them back, and for centuries I have been fighting against it. For my entire existence, my human form has been in constant battle with my angel half, but my mind, my very angelic reasoning, has always been stronger. And I eventually developed an immunity and discipline enough to quell my incessant urges and divert my thoughts.

But then I felt the softness of Bella's flesh, I tasted her lips, my hand cupped to one of her breasts, and like a drug all my senses could conceive of was _more_.

During that one encounter she completely enslaved me, and I'm now utterly defenseless; a vassal to the testosterone coursing through my veins. It's as though once switched on, the thousands of years of desire I have forced into dormancy came flooding back at me at once. I feel absolutely besieged by it, and the temptation to surrender is almost overpowering.

Whether its origins stem from the immense relief I feel from having Bella alive again, or whether it's another facet of the spear's power, I'm unsure. My libido isn't the only thing that's heightened, after all. Every one of my seven senses is greatly reinforced, and the infinite power that I'm in possession of could very well be having an unusual physical side effect.

Altogether it's throwing my mind into turmoil until I'm unsure if my thoughts are even my own.

I know only one thing; I need answers.

I make my way through my parent's backyard, concealing myself behind the pool house, and before extracting my wings and taking to the air, I call upon Daniel.

He arrives moments later in a bright illumination of light that quickly dims. He's wingless, despite being dressed in the tunic of Guardians.

"Brother," he greets me simply.

"Daniel," I reciprocate.

There is a short silence where the angel observes me closely before he breaks it, "You bear the mark." His voice is grave.

"I'm under the beast's contract," I explain with a frown. "How is Sarah?"

His eyes widen for a fraction as his entire face relaxes into a smile. "She's well. Is that why you called me?"

"No." I smile awkwardly to myself, briefly severing his gaze. "I want you to answer me something."

"Why? You hold the answers to the universe in your right hand," he points out, his eyes darting to the spear I clutch.

"I guess I want to hear it from a... purer source," I mumble.

"Brother, there is nothing purer than what you are in possession of," he replies, regarding me closely.

"Would you stop playing mind games with me!?" I snap, becoming frustrated and causing the angel's eyes to again widen in immediate response.

"You're full of doubt, Dashiel. It's not like you," he notes.

"B'Shem Yeshua [In the name of Jesus]!" I burst.

"Go ahead," he concedes, nodding once.

"Will I be able to consummate any marriage I enter into with Bella?" I put to him.

"Brother, while you carry the spear there is very little you cannot do. After, however..." he breaks my gaze and glances away from me as his thoughts breach beyond the period of the spear's covenant.

"I know what happens after," I quietly acknowledge, refusing to entertain any thoughts that extend the next three days, and propping my hands on my hips I hang my head and expel my breath through my nose. "Look," I begin, continuing to avoid his gaze, "I'm not acting under any delusions. I realize what will happen if I break the beast's contract, and if I don't Michael will kill me the moment I return. We have no future together, Bella and I, but I just... I want to take a piece of her with me."

He nods slowly, his expression becoming sedate. He can empathize with me, but I have no tolerance for it. Not now.

I glare at him indignantly, allowing my anger to surface for a fraction before I rein it back. It renders the angel in a state of consternation as he eyes me closely; his thoughts overrunning with confusion as he attempts to comprehend this shift in my behavior. His distraction only serves to irritate me more, and any thoughts of penetrating his foresight are subdued. In truth, I lack the courage. I'm unsure I'd have the strength to bear it.

In apparent conclusion the angel smiles, shaking his head with the barest of movement. "Brother, I can say this with absolute certainty, while you wield the spear the conditions of your banishment are suspended. You will be permitted to marry her as well consummate it, but don't delay it.

I nod. I knew as much but in the midst of so much preoccupation, I am struggling to trust my own perception.

"I don't intend to," I murmur, my eyes once more dropping to the spear in my grip.

"Dashiel," Daniel adds after a short pause, and his tone this time is dire. I glance up at him. "Michael is assembling his army to come against you. He is fully prepared to die to prevent you from releasing Azazel."

I snort. "Let him do his best, but I won't kill him."

"You aren't really going to release him, are you?" Daniel asks me with a level of uncertainty that is alien to a member of the Angelic Order.

"You're the one with the foresight," I remind him, my lips half twitching into a smile.

"It keeps changing," he confesses.

"That must suck," I tease him lightly, using one of Bella's idioms, and causing the angel's brow to arch quickly in bemusement.

He opens his mouth to reply, but appearing to second guess himself he scoffs softly into a half laugh. "If I didn't know better..."

He leaves it unspoken, but by the direction of his thoughts, he's considering the possibility that the spear is affecting my faculties.

"If that was only it," I mutter beneath my breath; though, the angel's senses are as sharp as my own, and he hears me.

"What afflicts you, brother?" he asks boldly

"You mean, other than the fact that I'm about to be condemned to a place where I've personally sent thousands of vengeful demons, and where the Morning Light, himself, has promised to psychologically torture me for all eternity?" My voice flares with impatience that the being before me could be so mindless.

He doesn't respond; his acute gold eyes only fix to mine as he examines me closely, a very human-like expression furrowing at his brow.

"Godspeed, Dashiel," he speaks softly, meeting my eyes squarely for a period before in a beam of light he is gone.

"Beast," I grumble, unfurling my wings and shooting up into the sky.

I travel a mile up into the atmosphere and am about to transcend into light when I spot them; Ramuell's pack. They remain on the outskirts of the city, their loyalty and obedience intact as they continue to patrol the perimeter.

Breaking course, I again descend, dropping down before them. They have several new members in their ranks, including one of Abaddon's demons; a female named Lilith.

Word has quickly spread from the surviving beasts of Abaddon's coven that I'm in possession of the spear and I'm resurrecting the fallen.

I survey her for a moment; this female of the damned with the shock of red hair and eyes so dark they appear all pupil. It is not often that you find a female among the demons. Fostering sedition tends not to be a part of the female angel's nature, but this one is an exception. She has not lived through her expulsion in the same order as Ramuell or Daniel. She fell with Abaddon and has been a member of his division for thousands of years; long since turning her back on any regret or contrition. And while she is not cruel or sadistic, she has led many a foolish male to damnation over the years, and without reprieve.

"You do realize He will probably just send you back down again?" I point out, though not without sympathy.

"I have to try," she replies as her eyes break from mine and fall to her feet. She knows I can read her thoughts and that's what shames her; she can't deceive me.

I shrug almost pitying the wretch, before severing her gaze to Jacob who acknowledges me with an almost child-like grin.

"Brother," he welcomes me.

"Jacob," I reply, breaking into an impulsive smile and turning my eyes on the last of the unfamiliar demons.

Zepar is his name, a wraith-like beast who was so overcome by anguish over his banishment that he buried himself in the ground, forcing himself into hibernation. Lilith uprooted him recently upon discovering my power.

He's deathly pale and reeks of the earth; his eyes splintered with a maze of broken vessels that diligently avoid my gaze. He's as haunted and defeated as you could possibly find in a demon.

"Brother," I address him with a degree of compassion.

"Brother," he echoes in response, his voice an emotionless monotone.

I only continue to survey him for a further few seconds, noting as the poor soul subtly cringes away from me.

"Look at me, brother," I instruct him, and he does so without delay. "Rise."

The length of a demon's metamorphosis from fallen angel to a reinstated member of the Host is dependent on how and where they are physically pierced with the spear, but with its power flowing through my veins, I can instantly restore a demon, or drag the process out for hours without so much as placing the spearhead to their flesh.

I do not torture this poor creature a second longer than the thousands of years he's suffered through, and in a whirlwind of burning ash and brilliant celestial fire, the risen angel stands before me from a stance of absolute astonishment.

"Brother!" he utters, and his voice while barely presenting with a sound, is steeped in shock.

I only place my hand on his shoulder in a gesture of solidarity, before turning to Ramuell.

"Ramuell," I acknowledge him, extending my hand that he grips in his own without delay. "Thank you, brother. I'm glad our paths crossed."

He smiles momentarily, nodding once. "As am I, Dashiel."

"I'm no longer Dashiel," I dispute quietly, and before he can open his mouth to respond, I raise him.

In the same method as the demon before him, in a mere heartbeat, Ramuell is a restored Angel of the Lord once more.

I turn next to his five companions, Arakiel, Tamiel, Asbeel, Bezaliel, and Jacob, closing my eyes for a fraction as I silently invoke the ability to restore them collectively.

"You're free, brothers," I affirm, as they shed the chains of their damnation in a tempest of burning ash and radiation.

For the next several seconds there is a furor of emotion as each new resurrected angel embraces me and each other, only to be drowned out by the indignant outburst of the she-devil.

"What about me!?" she declares, hands on her hips, her eyes wide with resentment.

" _You_ , I have a job for," I reply, turning to face her. "I want you to organize a priest for tomorrow. Only then will I resurrect you. Understand?"

She only stares at me for a moment, gauging the seriousness of my request as her eyes this time narrow, affronted. "What am I? Your _bitch_?"

Arching an eyebrow at her, I whip out Michael's blade and point it between her slit ebony eyes in a single motion.

"Do you want to be?" I warn her, as she lurches backward, her expression immediately smoothing out in alarm.

Her gaze flicks nervously back and forth from the sword to my eyes as she cautiously closes the distance between us again. "How do you expect me to get a priest? I cannot go near a church?" she reminds me conceding, though her expression remains sullen.

I huff my breath in exasperation, producing the spear this time, and just as I move to place it to her forehead she physically recoils.

"Are you serious!?" I burst with impatience.

"Habit?" she offers up meekly as some kind of justification.

" _Adonai Elohim [Lord God]_ ," I mutter, slapping my palm to her forehead and shoving her slightly backward. " _There_ , now you can. Now _get going_!"

I watch momentarily as the shrew stalks off, grumbling to herself, and just as Gabriel arrives, glowering openly at me.

I only scoff at him with blatant sarcasm, nodding my head to the six fledgling angels.

"Thank you, Dashiel," Ramuell says, his now gold eyes swimming with sentiment. "See you soon, my brother."

Smiling, I nod once and bow my head. _I wouldn't count on it,_ my mind answers as a heavy sigh proceeds it.

Then, turning away from the archangel and his charges, I again take to the air _._

Traveling at the speed of light, I reach the Mediterranean almost instantly. I resume physical form just prior to my descent, extending my wings to drop soundlessly on the peak of Mount Timna.

This is when I'm confronted by Michael with his army of angels in full battle armor, behind him.

"This ends here, Dashiel," he declares, raising his blazing white sword before directing it at me.

I have the urge to roll my eyes. My brother is all egotism and pageantry. Instead, I turn my back on him, and raising my hand, I overturn various rocks and boulders to the concealed entrance of the disgraced archangel's imprisonment.

In the next instant, Michael advances upon me, coming within several feet and continuing to point his sword at my chest. "You think this will save you?" he questions. "Your power ends in three days, at which time I will send you to the beast myself!"

I take a deliberate breath and shake my head. " _Saint Michael the Archangel, Defender of the Divine Glory,"_ I mock him. _"_ Pompous, arrogant and completely fucking irritating. Now _fall."_

It goes without saying that I would never harm a single member of the Host; Michael most especially. Not because of his hierarchy or importance, but because it would not be sanctioned. Casting him out to experience the swift, inequitable punishment that thousands of his brethren were forced to experience, however? It seemed entirely too fitting to pass up.

In a matter of seconds, the sacred light of God is extinguished from Michael's eyes, his flesh becomes permeable, and his expansive white feathered wings turn to dust, before shooting from his scapula bones as the trademarked thin-membraned appendages of the fallen.

With a loud clang, his sword falls to his feet and distinguishes—as a member of the damned he will not be able to wield it. He stumbles away from me, his now humanesque brown eyes comically wide in horror.

"What have you _done_?" he bursts, and there is more than a degree of desperation in his tone, and before I can answer he suddenly grips the side of his head with both hands and begins groaning loudly in pain.

"You can't be in the holy land, Brother!" I remind him, smirking at his predicament, before again turning my back on him to face his regiment.

They're in an uproar of shock and outrage as they hastily glance back and forth at each other, filling with alarm and indecision now that I have rendered them leaderless.

"Fall," I decree impassively as they all descend collectively into the legion of darkness.


End file.
